-5" 


.- 


OP  CALIF.  LIBRABY,  LOS  ANGELES 


A  SON  OF 


A  SON  OF 

AUSTERITY 


By   GEORGE   KNIGHT 


Frontispiece  by  HARRISON  FISHER 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  19')  1 
The  Bowen-Merrill  Compaajr 

Copyright   1912 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Compenr 


A  *>•  o(  AasterMr 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

D.  S.  C, 


V  '  ^  •-  ^  r-  - 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

i.     THE  SHE-WOLF'S  CUB       .             .  i 

II.       THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP  .                     8 

III.  PORTIA      .                  .                   .                   .  .21 

IV.  VOX  ET  PR^ETEREA  NIHIL          .  .                  33 
V.       A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE           .  .         47 

VI.       THE  PLAY  OF  TRAGEDY               .  .                  6 1 

VII.       THE  LAST  JOURNEY              .                  .  .69 

VIII.       A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  .                  82 

IX.       THE  KING  OF  TERRORS      .                  .  .96 

X.       A  MONOLOGUE  AND  SOME  IMPERTINENCES      117 

XI.       AN  INEFFECTIVE  DEMURRER           .  .128 

XII.       A  DEJEUNER  AND  A   DEPARTURE  .                135 

XIII.  THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  CAPTIVE     .  .       147 

XIV.  A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  .                158 
XV.       PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  .       170 

XVI.       AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL  .  .                1 82 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.  PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION             .  .195 

XVIII.  NATURE  AND  CERTAIN  VACUA  .                207 

XIX.  UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL  .  2l8 

XX.  THE  GORDIAN  KNOT                  .  .                 2 28 

XXI.  HOPE  OUT  OF  HELL         .                    .  .       240 

XXII.  A  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY  .                 2«jO 

XXm.  SPIRITUALITY  AND  A   MATERIAL 

EQUATION      ....       264 

XXTV.  INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION     .  .                 a8o 

XXV.  LOVE,   TIME  AND  DEATH                .  .        296 

XXVI.  SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAH  .                 308 

XXVII.  THE  INEFFABLE  PHENOMENON  .       323 

XXVTO.  OUT  OF  THE  BLUE  .                  .  .               333 

XXIX.  THE  FLOWERING  OF  DESPAIR   . 


A  SON  OF  AUSTERFTT 


A  SON    OF    AUSTERITY 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHE-WOLF'S  CUB 

"My  peace  is  gone 

And  my  heart  is  sore: 
I  have  lost  him,  and  lost  him 
For  evermore. 

"The  place  where  he  is  not 

To  me  is  the  tomb, 
The  world  is  sadness 
And  sorrow  and  gloom." 

The  reader's  voice  was  a  penetrating  baritone, 
sympathetic  enough,  though  somewhat  scantily 
modulated.  He  lay  at  full  length  on  a  truss  of 
straw,  with  a  paper-backed  duodecimo  between 
his  elbows,  while  the  afternoon  sunshine  picked 
him  out  of  the  dusk  from  an  adjacent  loophole. 
The  ponderous  murmur  of  uncouth  machinery 
dwelt  upon  the  air  throwing  into  acoustic  relief 
the  words  of  Marguerite's  lament — 

"My  peace  is  gone 

And  my  heart  is  sore, 
For  lost  is  my  love 
For  evermore." 


2  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

"Paul!" 

The  interpolated  syllable,  an  utterance  laden 
with  anxiety  and  thrilling  with  tears,  died  un- 
heard amid  the  somber  vibrations  which  governed 
the  student's  ear.  He  went  on,  vaulting  a  quar- 
tette of  stanzas- 

"Far  wanders  my  heart 

To  feel  him  near, 
Oh!  could  I  clasp  him 
And  hold  him  here. 

"Hold  him  and  kiss  him — 

Oh!  I  could  die 

To  feed  on  his  kisses 

How  willingly." 

"Paul!" 

This  second  summons  came — more  distinctly 
— from  the  horizontal  doorway  of  the  shadowy 
loft. 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Mother?  Good  heavens!  what  has  brought 
you  up  here?  Is  there  anything  the  matter?" 

Notwithstanding  the  title  just  given  her,  the 
woman  who  rose  in  the  obscurity  was  totally  un- 
like the  speaker.  Her  face  was  a  pronounced 
oval  with  steel  gray  eyes  under  the  arched  brows ; 
his  was  square  and  angular,  with  deep,  compre- 
hending brown  pupils.  Time  had  added  to  this 
natural  dissimilarity;  the  feminine  head  was  al- 
most white,  its  smooth  tresses  showing  pathet- 
ically sparse  against  the  high  temples — the  mas- 
culine was  covered  with  a  riotous  array  of  crisp 
dark  curls. 


THE  SHE-WOLF'S  CUB  3 

"There — there  was  no  one  about," — she  was 
answering  evasively  the  least  difficult  of  his  ques- 
tions— "and  I  wondered  where  you  could  be." 

Her  son's  mind — still  heavy  with  thought — did 
not  perceive  the  curious  inadequacy  of  the  expla- 
nation. He  held  up  the  small  volume. 

"Goethe,"  he  said.  "I  was  thinking  about 
you;  shall  I  ever  reconcile  you  to  Marguerite's 
lack  of  spirit?" 

The  listener's  teeth  caught  at  her  lip — the 
trembling  mouth  shut  tightly,  opened  involun- 
tarily as  if  to  speak,  then  closed  upon  the  vehem- 
ent grasp  of  some  recurring  emotion. 

Paul  sat  down  again  and  fluttered  the  leaves, 
scanning  a  page  here  and  there. 

"Poor  Marguerite,"  he  murmured  abstractedly; 
"she  was  rather  a  limp  little  soul." 

His  glance  wandered  from  the  book. 

"Mother! — why,  mother,  what  is  the  matter?" 

She  put  out  her  hands  toward  him  and  the  tears 
overflowed.  Her  answer  was  a  species  of  sob. 

"Paul,"  she  said  brokenly,  "your — your  father 
has  come  back." 

Paul  Gotch  sat  looking  at  her;  the  sunlight 
flooding  over  him  into  a  pool  of  dancing  yellow. 
His  mouth  softened  to  an  expression  of  tender 
interest  as  he  gazed  at  the  fragile  figure  before 
him.  Suddenly  the  eyes  of  mother  and  son  met : 
the  man's  face  fell  vaguely.  The  woman  saw 
it  and  understood.  Nevertheless,  she  held  her 
peace ;  she  could  do  no  other.  Yet,  on  the  instant, 


4  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

her  quivering  features  set  in  a  cruel  mask.  From 
the  lineaments  of  an  experienced  woman  of  mid- 
dle age,  they  became  those  of  a  vixen  of  fifty. 
The  rumble  of  the  machinery  below  seemed  to 
grow  upon  the  senses  of  both  until  it  was  like 
tLo  roar  of  Niagara.  Presently  Paul  spoke — a 
subdued  interrogation. 

"He  is  sorry?" 

It  was  an  ungainly  phrase,  but  the  hard  realism 
of  his  mother's  bearing  forbade  the  use  of  super- 
fluous rhetoric. 

"Sorry!" 

The  word  punctuated  a  forced  nasal  expiration 
that  was  a  sneer  run  mad.  Paul  Gotch  winced ; 
he  fingered  the  "Faust"  in  puzzled  embarrass- 
ment. 

Unexpectedly,  Mrs.  Gotch  stepped  forward, 
snatched  the  book  from  his  hand,  flung  it  down 
and  stamped  on  it. 

Her  son  bent  and  took  it  up.  When  he  re- 
gained his  former  position  his  eyes  were  con- 
temptuous and  his  nostrils  dilated  with  the  frigid 
anger  of  disgust.  The  two  faces,  fiercely  an- 
tagonistic, gazed  into  each  other;  Paul  began  to 
straighten  the  crumpled  volume. 

"Sorry!"  said  Mrs.  Gotch  once  more. 

Paul  devoted  himself  conspicuously  to  the  dam- 
aged translation. 

"And  if  he  were  sorry,"  his  mother  flashed  out, 
"what  then?" 

Paul  Gotch  squared  his  drooping  shoulders. 


THE  SHE-WOLF'S  CUB  5 

"Nothing,"  he  answered. 

"Pshaw!"  retorted  Mrs.  Gotch,  bitterly;  "do 
you  think  I  don't  know  what  you  mean?  You 
set  more  store  by  a  lot  of  rubbish  you've  read  in 
those  books  of  yours  than  you  do  by  all  my  years 
of  starving  and  struggling.  That's  why  you  sym- 
pathize with  him.  Ah,  you're  his  son.  after  all; 
his  own  son,  core-through !" 

Paul  Gotch  raised  his  head  and  his  jaw  fixed. 
The  muscles  at  the  angles  thickened  into  fleshy 
swellings,  so  brutal  was  the  strain  put  upon 
them.  His  mother  repaid  this  physical  demon- 
stration of  revolt  with  a  stare  of  virulent  disdain, 
and  the  ensemble  of  both  countenances  became  in- 
human in  the  extreme.  Cynicism  sprang  to  the 
man's  rescue. 

"I  suppose  the  wanderer  has  asked  to  see  me," 
he  suggested ;  "is  that  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Gotch  trembled  with  passion. 

"You  surely  don't  imagine  he's  here  for  my 
sake,"  she  snapped. 

Regardless  of  the  gibe,  Paul  began  to  descend 
the  hidden  stairway.  He  halted  abruptly,  and 
returned,  his  face  alight  with  a  dreamy  simplic- 
ity. 

"What  is  my  father  like?"  he  inquired. 

His  mother  lifted  her  hand,  and  struck  him 
upon  the  cheek: — a  desperate,  vicious  blow,  that 
stamped  a  quadruple  bar  of  scarlet  on  a  saffron 
ground.  Paul's  clenched  fingers  leaped  to  a  level 
with  his  elbow ;  then  dropped. 


6  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

"I  think  you  forget  yourself,"  he  observed, 
icily. 

Mrs.  Gotch  shrank  back,  aghast  at  her  o\vn  ac- 
tion, and  her  son,  crossing  the  rickety  floor  with 
savage  strides,  disappeared  in  the  twilight  of  the 
awkward  exit.  His  mother  followed  him. 

The  apartment  below  was  windowless ;  but  a 
wide  opening  in  one  of  the  rough  board  walls 
served  the  double  purpose  of  door  and  casement. 
From  its  sill,  a  long  slope  of  wooden  beams  sank  to 
an  irregular  stretch  of  muddy  clay,  and  upon  the 
thwarts  of  the  slope  a  narrow-gauge  railway  had 
been  built.  A  rusty  chain  came  up  the  incline, 
met  a  couple  of  giant  pulleys,  and  plunged  into 
the  engine-room  underneath.  To  its  farther  ex- 
tremity a  laborer  was  attaching.a  squat  tip-wagon 
piled  with  masses  of  clay.  The  horse  that  had 
dragged  it  from  the  point  where  the  clay  was  in 
process  of  "getting,"  stood  dejectedly  by.  On 
all  sides  the  brickfield  rolled  its  solitary  acres  to 
the  distant  ring-fence  of  suburban  roofs.  Within 
the  upper  story  of  the  engine-house  a  huge  hopper 
pierced  the  planking,  and  into  its  battered  funnel 
a  slothful  attendant  shoveled,  periodically,  the 
disgorgings  of  the  tip-wagons. 

Mrs.  Gotch  hurried  down  the  artificial  declivity 
that  afforded  the  only  means  of  access  or  depart- 
ure. Her  son  availed  himself  of  it  for  a  few 
yards,  and  then  leaped  into  the  ruddy  mire  of  the 
clay  bottom.  They  met  at  the  base  of  the  slope, 
and  mounted  together  the  acute  scarp  that  led  to 


THE  SHE-WOLF'S  CUB  7 

a  trapezium  of  unspoiled  turf,  whereon  \vas 
perched  a  single  white  cottage.  A  low  green 
fence  surrounded  it;  it  had  green  window-shut- 
ters, and  a  shallow  porch  of  green  trellis.  The 
conventional  flower-beds  in  the  cramped  garden 
were  thronged  with  double  daisies — pink,  yellow 
and  blue. 

On  the  threshold  Mrs.  Gotch  spun  about. 

"Mind  you,"  she  said,  vindictively,  "go  with 
him  if  you  want  to." 

Paul  Gotch  laughed  easily;  he  had  recovered 
his  savoir-faire. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    INDISSOLUBLE    PARTNERSHIP 

IN  the  front  parlor  of  the  white  cottage  a  man 
was  striding  up  and  down — half  a  dozen  steps  one 
way,  half  a  dozen  the  other ;  fitfully,  like  a  caged 
animal.  The  room  was  low-ceiled  and  unsym- 
metrical,  but  substantially — even  handsomely — 
furnished.  A  thick  Brussels  carpet  covered  the 
floor ;  the  chairs,  the  sofa,  and  the  revolving  book- 
case in  the  window-bay,  were  of  heavy  mahogany 
— the  two  former  upholstered  in  maroon  leather 
— and  a  few  pictures,  unambitious  enough,  yet 
well-chosen,  hung  against  the  walls.  These  lat- 
ter were  further  diversified  by  fixed  book-shelves, 
brackets,  and  dependent  pottery. 

Upon  a  round,  four-legged  table  of  black  oak, 
pushed  toward  one  of  the  flanking  sashes,  a  large 
silver  ink-stand  made  a  glittering  island  in  the 
midst  of  a  sea  of  disordered  literature — volumes 
opened  and  closed,  magazines,  newspapers,  and 
folios  of  soiled  manuscript.  Before  this  monu- 
mental confusion,  the  walker  finally  halted.  He 
was  a  person  of  medium  height,  agile  in  his  move- 
ments, and  powerfully,  though  compactly  built. 

8 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP      9 

His  hair  and  closely-cropped  beard  \vere  thickly 
sprinkled  with  gray,  and  the  irises  of  ni.->  some- 
what diminutive  eyes  were  a  pale  neutral  tint, 
splashed  with  vivid  orange.  His  nu.-uth  was 
selfish,  and,  by  reason  of  a  protruding  nether  lip, 
sensual  to  boot.  Lounging  at  the  table-edge,  he 
lifted  a  batch  of  scrawled  sheets  and  investigated 
them  musingly. 

"  'The  Economic  Interpretation  of  History- 
Notes  on  Thorold  Rogers.'  Bah !  'The  Ethical 
Standards  of  Certain  Poets ;'  'Beatrice  Cenci  and 
the  Instinct  of  Revenge  in  Woman.'  Good  Lord!" 
he  commented,  "what  a  queer  lodger  Selina  must 
have  hooked !  Some  literary  card,  I  suppose. 
Poetry,  too!" — he  was  still  wading  through  the 
heterogeneous  mass — "Hullo !" 

He  had  fallen  upon  a  slip  of  paper  crowded 
with  a  laboriously  legible  caligraphy.  It  was  in- 
scribed— 

To  ONE  GOTCH,  UNKNOWN. 

The  succeeding  lines  ran  from  a  penciled  mar- 
gin— 

"And  Abraham  begat,"  saith  Holy  Writ, 

"Isaac,  and  Isaac  Jacob;"  naught  is  told 
Of  those  whose  troth  was  plighted  with  these  old 
Departed  heroes,  whose  sweet  lives  were  knit 
With  their  sons'  grandsons,  and  whose  subtle  wit 

Made  mighty  statesmen  of  their  "valiant  mold" — 
Dames  whose  full  tide  of  virtuous  crimson  rolled 
In  her  pure  veins  that  nursed  the  Infinite. 


io  A   SON   OP   AUSTERITY 

"The  complement  hereof  Fate  dealt  to  me. 

For  I,  that  am  not  all  my  mother's  child, 
Seeing  my  will  is  calm  and  hers  is  wild — 
If  I  should  question  how  I  came  to  be, 
(I  am  that  living  soul  for  evermore) 
Do  find  this  only:     "And  Selina  bore." 

The  reader's  brows  contracted  and  his  mouth 
twitched. 

"Ha-ha!"  he  murmured  craftily;  "so  this  is  the 
child's  work — a  clever  lad,  and  curious  about  his 
father.  That  is  why  Selina  didn't  want  him  to 
see  me.  Very  well,  Selina!" 

He  drew  out  a  swollen  pocket-book,  folded  the 
copy  of  the  sonnet,  and  insinuated  it  into  one  of 
the  flat  compartments.  After  which  he  chose  a 
seat,  reached  his  umbrella  from  the  corner,  put  it 
between  his  knees,  clasped  his  fingers  over  its 
buckhorn  crutch  and  leaned  his  jaw  upon  his 
knuckles.  All  was  very  quiet,  save  for  the  per- 
vading tattoo  of  the  mill  that  beat  the  clay  into 
an  interminable  slab  for  cutting.  Soon  the  lis- 
tener was  aware  of  footsteps  in  the  passage  with- 
out and  his  face  sharpened.  A  fugitive  anxiety 
flitted  across  it  as  he  diagnosed  the  firm  self-pos- 
session of  a  tread  that  was  not  his  wife's.  How- 
beit,  when  the  door  opened  to  admit  Selina  Gotch 
and  her  son,  his  expression  had  become  one  of 
thoughtful,  almost  listless,  composure. 

As  they  entered  the  room  he  rose,  and  put  out 
his  hand — not  effusively,  the  cold  eyes  had  been 
too  perspicacious  for  that,  but  soberly  and  with 
diffidence. 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP    1 1 

Mrs.  Gotch  sneered  as  she  comprehended  her 
husband's  rapid  discernment. 

Paul  made  no  response  to  the  proffered  salu- 
tation. His  mother  caught  her  breath. 

Gotch  the  elder  turned  to  his  wife,  skilfully 
disguising  the  unreciprocated  gesture. 

"So  this  is  our  son,  Selina,"  he  said. 

"This  is  the  son  that  as  an  unborn  child  you 
deserted,"  retorted  Mrs.  Gotch,  implacably. 

Two  of  the  three  were  studying  the  third — 
they  were  Gotch  the  elder,  and  his  wife,  Selina. 
One,  and  that  one  Paul  himself,  was  contemplat- 
ing the  shrewd,  authoritative  face  of  the  man 
who  had  just  claimed  to  be  his  father. 

The  youngest  of  the  trio  spoke  first. 

"What  is  your  Christian  name?"  he  asked. 

"Christopher,"  replied  the  other;  "what  is 
yours  ?"  Mrs.  Gotch  answered  the  inquiry. 

"Paul,"  she  said,  exultantly. 

Her  husband  felt  the  point  of  her  triumph. 

"I  am  sorry  you  didn't  call  him  after  me,"  he 
owned ;  "but  there,  I  didn't  deserve  it." 

"I  should  think  you  didn't,"  assented  Selina 
Gotch,  viciously. 

The  visitor  bent  his  head  with  an  air  of  af- 
fected humility.  His  wife  flamed  into  impotent 
rage  at  his  astuteness. 

"Oh,  you  disgusting  hypocrite,"  she  cried. 

The  son  intervened. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  he  said. 

Christopher  Gotch  acted  on  the  suggestion,  and 


12  A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

knitting  his  fingers  over  his  umbrella,  propped 
his  chin  upon  them  as  before.  Paul  took  a 
lounge  that  was  set  over  against  his  father's 
chair,  and  leaned  back  in  it;  Mrs.  Gotch  stood  bolt 
upright,  quivering  with  the  extremity  of  her  jeal- 
ous suspense. 

"My  mother/'  began  Paul,  directing  his  remark 
to  the  vigilant  figure  opposite,  "has  naturally 
given  me  some  account  of  your  conduct  towards 
her."  He  might  have  been  dictating  to  an  aman- 
uensis, so  expressionlessly  level  were  his  tones. 
"But,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  peculiar  fashion, 
"I  have  come  unavoidably  to  regard  with  a  cer- 
tain distrust  her  recollection  of  any  event  which 
may  have  involved  a  serious  personal  equation." 

Gotch  the  elder  was  perplexed  by  his  son's  ju- 
dicial manner.  Nevertheless,  he  gathered,  though 
tardily,  the  significance  of  the  latter's  stilted  ex- 
ordium, and  shot  a  stealthy  glance  at  his  wife. 
She  was  livid  with  resentment. 

"Of  this  distrust,"  continued  Paul,  "it  is  per- 
haps only  fair  that  you  should  have  the  benefit — 
unlikely  as  it  is  that  in  the  present  case  the  really 
material  facts  can  be  challenged.  However,  will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  answer  deliberately  the 
questions  I  am  about  to  put  to  you  ?" 

Christopher  Gotch  gasped,  recovered  his 
breath,  considered  the  apathetic  pose  of  his  in- 
quisitor, and  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"Thank  you.  Question  number  one  is  this: 
You  are  legally  married  to  my  mother?" 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP    13 

Gotch  the  elder  reviewed  the  situation,  and  de- 
cided upon  candor. 

"That  is  so,"  he  admitted. 

Paul  proceeded. 

"I  am  told  that  you  left  her  six  months  after 
the  wedding.  Is  that  also  true  ?" 

Christopher  Gotch  coughed. 

"Well "  he  fenced. 

"Yes  or  no,  please,"  desired  the  querist,  ab- 
ruptly. 

The  response  came  at  last ;  it  was  not  a  denial. 

"You  knew  that  she  was  friendless?" 

"I  should  not  have  called  her  so,"  objected  the 
other. 

"Name  to  me  any  one  friend  to  whom  she  could 
have  applied  for  aid." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"You  knew,"  added  the  young  man,  "that  her 
marriage  had  alienated  her  from  her  only  living 
relative?" 

"I  hoped,"  said  his  father,  gently,  "that  my 
departure  would  have  paved  the  way  to  their 
reconciliation. 

"You  were  acquainted  with  her  father?" 

"Slightly." 

"Did  you  ever  discover  anything  in  his  charac- 
ter which  might  have  justified  your  entertaining 
such  a  hope?" 

Christopher  Gotch  remained  mute.  Paul 
shifted  his  position  and  pursued  his  interroga- 
tories. 


14  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Do  you  know  where  I  was  born?" 

His  father  shivered.     "Not  in — the ?" 

Paul  finished  the  sentence  without  altering  the 
singular  monotone  of  his  voice. 

"In  the  work-house." 

The  color  was  coming  back  to  the  face  of 
Selina  Gotch.  She  stepped  forward  that  she 
might  see  the  countenances  of  both  men. 

"Had  you  any  reason,"  demanded  Paul,  ruth- 
lessly, "for  supposing  that  I  would  be  born  any- 
where else  ?" 

Christopher  Gotch  flushed  crimson. 

"I  thought  I  should  be  able  to  send  money," 
he  stammered. 

"You  knew  that  the  rent  of  your  house  was 
even  then  in  arrears,  and  that  the  landlord  was  a 
grasping  usurer." 

The  impeachment  went  by  default — there  was 
no  disclaimer. 

"Had  you  any  means  of  ascertaining  my 
mother's  future  address?" 

Silence. 

"Had  she  any  means  of  communicating  with 
you?" 

Still  silence,  broken  by  an  expiration  of  pleased 
malice  from  Mrs.  Gotch. 

"You  have  made  no  sign  these  five-and-twenty 
years ;  why  are  you  here  now  ?" 

The  baited  sinner  glanced  piteously  at  his  wife. 

"I — I  have  explained,"  he  said;  "I  am — sorry 
— for  the  past.  I  am  rich,  too ;  I  can  atone." 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP    15 

Paul  smiled  sadly. 

"Is  that  your  only  motive?" 

"My  only  motive." 

The  inquisitor  accepted  the  assurance. 

"You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  we  have  been 
fortunate.  My  grandfather  died  intestate— 
these  works  are  my  mother's.  We  have  all  we 
want." 

Christopher  Gotch  sighed. 

"I — I  am  very  lonely,"  he  confessed. 

Involuntarily  Selina  drew  nearer  to  her  son. 
A  short  step  more  would  have  brought  her  be- 
tween him  and  her  husband. 

The  pensive  smile  flickered  about  Paul's  mouth. 

"And  so,"  he  interpreted,  "you  have  come 
courting  my  mother  over  again." 

"Yes,"  answered  Christopher  Gotch,  unstead- 
ily. 

"It's  a  lie,"  cried  his  wife  insanely,  "it's  a  lie, 
Christopher;  you  want  the  boy,  you  know  you 
want  the  boy." 

She  clenched  her  hands  as  though  to  strike 
him;  her  thin  bosom  rose  and  fell  convulsively. 

Paul  surveyed  them  a  moment. 

"I  suppose  that  is  so?"  he  inquired. 

The  full  lips  of  Christopher  Gotch  worked  un- 
der his  gray  mustache.  He  looked  troublously  at 
the  two — the  woman  who  had  grown  old  in  his 
absence,  the  child  to  whom  he  was  a  stranger. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "you  are  my  son." 


1 6  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"I  am  much  more  my  mother's,"  replied  Paul, 
impassively.  "Your  life  is  in  my  brain,  I  sup- 
pose, but  her  blood  is  in  my  veins.  She  bore 
me  in  a  work-house  hospital ;  she  did  the  work  of 
a  menial  that  I  might  become  a  scholar;  she  has 
given  me  out  of  her  prosperity  as  freely  as  she 
gave  to  me  out  of  her  adversity.  And  now  you 
come  to  me  and  ask  for  a  share  in  me,  who  am 
wholly  her  property.  Tell  me,  would  it  be  just 
to  grant  it  you?" 

"Just?"  muttered  Christopher  Gotch,  "just? — 
no,  it  would  not  be  just." 

His  son  made  an  expressive  motion — as  of  dis- 
missal. 

An  odd  gleam  sprang  into  the  other's  eyes,  and 
he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Selina,"  he  remarked,  banteringly,  "has  the 
lad  a  sweetheart?" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Gotch. 

Her  husband  repeated  the  words  mockingly. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  mused,  "certainly  not !  No, 
of  course,  it  would  not  be  just." 

"Why  wouldn't  it?"  parried  Mrs.  Gotch. 

"You  have  done  so  much  for  him,"  expounded 
Christopher  Gotch,  "a  sweetheart  would  have 
done  nothing  for  him.  Yet,  if  he  had  one,  he 
would  love  her  better  than  you.  That  would  not 
be  just." 

"You  have  wronged  us  actively,"  demurred 
Paul,  seizing  upon  the  point. 

"True,"  conceded  his  father;  "you  have  a  log- 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP    17 

ical  mind,  my  son.  But  I,  who  have  wronged 
you,  only  wanted  a  little  of  your  love ;  when  you 
get  a  sweetheart  you  will  take  all  your  love  from 
your  mother,  who  has  done  so  much  for  you,  and 
you  will  give  it  all  to  the  girl." 

"That  is  silly,"  declared  Paul,  ruffled;  "the 
question  is  not  of  love,  but  of  the  most  elementary 
justice." 

Gotch  the  elder  rose,  took  his  hat  and  crossed 
the  room. 

"Good-bye,  Paul."  he  observed;  "you  are  a 
very  Solomon.  Good-bye,  Selina ;  I  am  sorry 
there  are  so  many  pretty  girls  in  the  world.  The 
Gotches  are  an  impressionable  stock.  Good-bye 
again ;  I  can  find  my  own  way  out.'' 

As  the  sound  of  the  escaping  latch  on  the  outer 
door  came  to  their  ears,  Paul  spoke  to  his 
mother. 

"I  didn't  expect  any  one  like  that,"  he  said. 

"No,"  returned  his  mother,  dubiously. 

"No" — he  was  revolving  the  concluded  inci- 
dent in  his  mind;  "but  my  father  is  clearly  no 
fool." 

While  Selina  Gotch  pondered  this  negative  ver- 
dict Paul  settled  himself  at  the  round  table.  His 
mother  swerved  from  her  thoughts,  comprehend- 
ing, with  a  sudden  painful  pleasure,  that  the  bat- 
tle was  over,  and  that  victory  remained  with  her. 
Her  pulses  quickened  as  she  looked  at  her  appar- 
ently pre-occupied  son;  an  awkward  tenderness 
shook  her  worn  frame. 


1 8  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

"Would  you  like  some  tea,  Paul?"  she  asked 
nervously. 

The  young  man  raised  his  head,  a  suppressed 
smile  in  the  depths  of  his  brown  pupils. 

"I  think  I  should."  he  decided,  upon  reflection. 

Mrs.  Gotch  set  about  preparing  the  suggested 
meal.  Practical  ministry  is  the  one  refuge  of 
inarticulate  spirits. 

When  he  was  alone  the  student  abandoned  his 
seat  and  peered  cautiously  through  the  flimsy 
curtains  of  the  bay  window.  Christopher  Gotch 
was  just  ascending  the  steep  counter-slope  which 
led  from  the  muddy  bottom  of  the  vast  and  tortu- 
ous trench  that  cleft  the  broken  meadow.  He 
had  evidently  rejected  the  simplest  means  of  exit 
from  the  brickfield — a  wide  cinder-path  running 
east  and  west.  Paul  watched  him  out  of  sight, 
and  then  went  back  to  the  round  table. 

Unconscious  of  his  son's  surveillance,  Christo- 
pher Gotch  gained  the  summit  of  an  elongated 
hillock,  and  following  its  sharp  sow-back,  passed 
from  the  scope  of  Paul's  vision.  At  a  convenient 
spot  he  paused  to  survey  the  surrounding  country. 

On  his  left  was  the  solitary  cottage,  elevated, 
with  its  trim  garden,  upon  an  expanse  of  ragged 
turf;  on  his  right  the  grouped  outbuildings  of 
the  "works,"  the  double  stories  of  the  engine- 
house  dominating  the  low  roofs  of  the  drying- 
sheds.  Behind  him,  half  a  mile  away,  one  high- 
road skirted  the  rolling  acres  of  plastic  earth, 
sprinkled  here  and  there  with  matted  grass  and 


THE  INDISSOLUBLE  PARTNERSHIP    19 

lusty  dandelion  flowers.  In  front,  at  the  same 
distance,  was  another  and  busier  thoroughfare, 
and  on  it,  at  the  northeast  limit  of  the  clay-field, 
a  church  with  a  lofty  spire — a  spire  delicate  and 
soaring  beyond  the  common,  rich  with  pinnacle 
and  crocket,  and  carried  upon  a  splendidly  ornate 
tower. 

Gotch  the  elder  paid  but  scant  heed  to  this  sym- 
bol of  passionate  aspiration,  being  engaged  in 
estimating  the  yearly  income  and  capital  value 
represented  by  the  neighboring  brickworks  and 
messuage.  "Selina  has  not  done  badly,"  he  told 
himself.  For  a  while  he  seemed  lost  in  contem- 
plation, then  rousing,  strolled  toward  the  adjacent 
engine-house  and  outbuildings. 

Upon  the  side  nearest  to  him  was  a  range  of 
fires — sacred  to  the  drying-sheds.  An  open  well 
lay  in  front  of  it,  and  at  the  farther  side  of  the 
shallow  ditch  a  row  of  furnaces  gleamed  through 
the  skirts  of  their  iron  doors.  Above,  the  oblong 
blocks  of  steaming  clay  were  laid  in  serried  thou- 
sands upon  the  hot  pavement.  One  man  wrought 
in  the  well  to  keep  the  fires  going;  another  stood 
upon  its  edge  and  leaned  meditatively  against  a 
pillar  that  stayed  the  roof. 

This  latter  was  a  surprisingly  short  and  sturdy 
fellow,  with  a  dense  black  beard,  and  sloe-black 
eyes.  He  was  taking  rapid  stock  of  the  new- 
comer, of  his  silk  hat,  of  his  silver-mounted  um- 
brella, of  the  diamond  and  chrysoberyl  ring  upon 
his  little  finger. 


20  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

This  profound  regard  did  not  in  the  least  em- 
barrass its  object,  who  moved  on  calmly,  viewing 
the  plant  and  buildings  as  he  went  with  tolerant 
interest.  The  dwarf  changed  his  position,  the 
better  to  continue  his  scrutiny. 

"Yon's  mair  than  a  look  o'  the  young  master," 
he  muttered;  "I'm  thinkin'  he'll  be  sib  to'm." 

Christopher  Gotch  disappeared,  continuing  his 
circular  tour  of  inspection.  A  shrill  sound 
startled  the  brooding  Scot — the  unnatural  call  of 
the  steam-whistle.  The  end  of  the  working-day 
had  arrived. 

The  stoker  got  out  of  his  pit  and  approached 
the  dwarf. 

"Who  goes  on  after  me  to-night,  Mr.  Gary?" 
he  asked. 

The  foreman  named  the  relief.  "Has  he  no' 
come?"  he  inquired. 

The  reply  was  in  the  negative. 

"I'll  send  ye  a  man  roond,"  said  the  Scot,  and 
strode  off,  walking  fast  but  clumsily.  As  he 
stepped  free  of  the  obscuring  block  he  saw  that 
the  person  who  bore  so  notable  a  resemblance  to 
Paul  Gotch  was  lounging  westwards  through  the 
amber  radiance  of  the  setting  sun. 


CHAPTER   III 

PORTIA 

PATRICK  STUART,  vicar  of  St.  Faith's,  sat  in 
his  library.  Before  him  lay  a  pile  of  quarto 
sheets,  closely  covered  with  heavy  yet  fretful 
handwriting,  not  unlike  mediaeval  text.  The 
first  of  the  folios  bore  the  inscription — 

EZEKIEL  XXVIII,  2, 
and  the  motto — 

"Thou  art  a  man  and  not  God,  though  thou  set  thy 
heart  as  the  heart  of  God." 

Opposite  the  vicar,  as  he  sat  at  a  pretentious 
rosewood  escritoire,  were  a  couple  of  French 
casements.  Through  one  of  these  he  could  dis- 
cern the  Gothic  tower  of  his  church,  its  aerial 
spire  truncated  by  the  lintel  of  the  window,  and 
silhouetted  against  a  low  moon.  He  looked  out 
at  the  soaring  structure,  sighed  gustily,  and  gath- 
ered the  blotted  pages  together.  He  had  finished 
his  sermon,  and  the  physical  chill  that  follows 
hard  upon  inspiration  was  beginning  to  lay  hold 
of  him.  As  he  slipped  the  completed  essay  into 
a  worn  morocco  "back" — heir  to  so  many  pre- 
21 


22  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

meditated  harangues — the  folding-  doors  at  the 
farther  extremity  of  the  room  yawned  by  cir- 
cumspect installments. 

Patrick  Stuart  glanced  up. 

"Come  in,  dear,"  he  said  tenderly;  "I  have  fin- 
ished now." 

A  little  figure  stepped  forward — a  figure  that 
had  the  stature  of  a  child,  with  the  mature, 
though  blemished,  outlines  of  a  woman.  As  she 
came  faltering  towards  him  with  the  cautious 
footsteps  of  the  blind,  the  rays  from  the  vicar's 
reading-lamp  shone  upon  her  face — pure  Greek, 
with  sightless  violet  eyes  and  a  quivering,  sen- 
suous mouth.  A  deep  cape  of  scarlet — the  upper 
portion  of  some  stage-doctor's  robes — hung  down 
to  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  and  her  chestnut  hair  was 
put  up  in  a  coronet  of  braids  beneath  a  scholar's 
cap. 

Patrick  Stuart's  face  lit  with  surprise. 

"What  have  you  been  doing,  my  darling?"  he 
asked  gently. 

"Do  I  look  pretty?"  queried  his  visitor. 

The  question  hurt — there  was  not  much  beauty 
in  the  stunted  form  and  crooked  shoulders.  But, 
at  the  crisis  of  his  hesitation  the  vicar's  gaze 
traveled  to  the  exquisite  features,  and  marked, 
with  a  novel  attention,  the  lustrous  purple  orbs, 
and  the  palpitating,  rose-leaf  flush  upon  the 
transparent  skin. 

"Very  pretty,  my  child,"  he  answered,  and 
spoke  the  truth. 


PORTIA  23 

''Pretty  like  other  women?''  insisted  the  elfish 
mortal. 

Patrick  Stuart  winced  at  the  impending  decis- 
ion. He  fingered  his  handsome  Vandyke  beard, 
of  golden  brown. 

"Of  course,  dear,"  he  assured  her. 

"Justine  did  me  this  way,"  went  on  the  in- 
quirer ;  "she  says  I  am  Portia  now — Portia  in 
the  'Merchant  of  Venice' ;  we  found  the  things 
up-stairs." 

The  vicar's  brows  wrinkled  irritably,  but  he 
made  no  response. 

"Justine  says,"  pursued  the  imaginary  Vene- 
tian, "that  this  cloak  of  mine  is  red.  You  tell 
me  what  red  is." 

Patrick  Stuart  was  thrown  upon  that  afflicted 
worthy  who  conceived  scarlet  as  resembling  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet,  but  waived  the  subtle  com- 
parison. 

"I  do  not  think  I  could  make  you  understand," 
he  said,  almost  brusquely,  sighing,  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  at  the  psychological  barrier  between 
his  daughter's  mind  and  his  own. 

The  quaint  one  came  forward,  and,  kneeling  at 
his  feet,  burst  unexpectedly  into  tears. 

"Dearie,"  it  sobbed,  "I  am  so  lonely." 

The  vicar's  eyes  moistened,  and  he  put  an  arm 
about  her. 

"Poor  little  Elsie,"  he  muttered  huskily — 
"father  is  very  thoughtless." 


24  A    SON   Or   AUSTERITY 

The  cap  had  fallen  from  the  chestnut  locks, 
and  the  smooth,  pale  forehead  gleamed  in  the 
lamp-light. 

Suddenly  the  tears  stanched,  and  the  sensitive 
lips  ripened  into  a  feminine  pout. 

"Say  I  am  very  pretty,"  was  their  petition. 

Patrick  Stuart's  nostrils  dilated  momentarily; 
a  gesture  of  displeasure,  even  of  contempt,  at  the 
obsession. 

"Very,"  he  returned  dryly. 

Elsie  held  up  a  blue-veined  wrist.  A  slender 
bracelet  was  clasped  upon  it — a  bracelet  that 
mounted  a  single  giant  ruby.  Patrick  Stuart 
recognized  the  jewel  as  an  artificial  one — recog- 
nized it  merely  by  virtue  of  a  previous  acquaint- 
ance, the  paste  was  too  good  for  extempore  de- 
tection. 

"This  is  pretty,  too,  isn't  it?"  inquired  the 
wearer  of  the  bracelet,  touching  the  mimic  gem. 
"Justine  says  it  is  like  fire,  only  it  won't  warm 
one;  but  it  is  like  fire  when  it  is  red — red  like 
my  cloak.  And  the  bracelet  is  pretty,  too,"  she 
ran  on,  "like  a  ring.  See,  I  can  move  my  fingers 
round  and  round  it,  and  never  come  to  the  end." 
She  thrust  the  ornament  back  into  its  place, 
and  sitting  down  upon  the  floor,  leant  against  her 
father's  chair. 

"What  have  you  been  writing  about?"  she 
asked;  "tell  me,  Dearie,  it's  nice  to  know  before 
any  one  else." 


The  vicar  took  out  his  manuscript  and  read  the 
text  aloud. 

"Oh!"  observed  Elsie,  discontentedly;  "about 
God  again !" 

"S-s-sh!  darling,"  said  her  father,  a  rebuke  in 
his  voice. 

"Well,"  persisted  "Portia,"  "I'm  tired  of  hear- 
ing you  preach  about  God.  Why  doesn't  He 
speak  to  me  as  well  as  to  you?  Is  it  because  I 
can't  see? — you  say  you  can't  see  Him;  I  don't 
understand." 

The  vicar  cleared  his  throat;  Elsie  compre- 
hended'the  motion. 

"No,  don't  tell  me -now,"  she  commanded;  "I 
know  I'm  stupid,  but  I  hate  to  be  explained  to — 
sometimes.  Go  on  about  the  sermon." 

Patrick  Stuart  reviewed  the  tenor  of  his  proxi- 
mate deliverance. 

"It  is  about  the  essential  futility  of  ambition," 
he  began,  stiltedly,  epitomizing  the  drift  of  the 
discourse — "there  is  no  limit  to  the  desire  of  the 
human  spirit,  but  that  desire  is,  in  its  essence, 
impossible  of  attainment.  Human  ambition  is 
infinite — human  capacity  is  finite.  The  tireless 
pertinacity  with  which  some  men — Napoleon,  for 
instance — have  pursued  their  aims,  lends  a  ficti- 
tious divinity  to  their  characters.  But,  after  all, 
their  hearts  were  the  hearts  of  men,  though  for 
years,  it  may  have  been  for  the  best  part  of  a  life- 
time"— the  epitome  was  becoming  hopelessly 


26  A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

lame,  it  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the  text — "they 
set  their  hearts  as  the  heart  of  God!" 

"What  is  the  heart  of  God?"  propounded  Elsie. 

The  vicar  pursed  his  mouth. 

"It  is  a  figurative  expression,"  he  returned, 
"for  the  Divine  Individuality — that  in  the  Omnip- 
otent which  most  nearly  approaches  personality 
in  man." 

"What  is  the  Divine  Individuality?"  pursued 
Elsie,  ignoring  the  explanatory  clause  of  her 
father's  last  sentence. 

Patrick  Stuart  hesitated. 

"Is  God  someone?"  demanded  the  crkic. 

"N-not  exactly,"  confessed  the  vicar,  startled 
by  his  own  candor. 

Elsie  sniffed. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  she  said  languidly,  "that  you 
don't  know  much  more  about  God  than  I  do." 

She  got  up  and  marched  over  to  a  settee,  in 
whose  depths  she  buried  herself. 

"I'm  going  to  sleep,"  she  announced. 

The  vicar  took  up  a  pen  and  some  note-paper. 

Half  an  hour  later  there  was  a  tap  at  one  of 
the  French  windows.  Patrick  Stuart  rose  and 
withdrew  the  catch.  Paul  Gotch  stood  without. 

"Are  you  alone?"  he  asked. 

"Unsociable  being !"  bantered  the  vicar.  "Yes, 
I  am  alone,  saving  Elsie's  presence.  But  she  is 
asleep,  poor  little  girl!" 

Paul  stepped  into  the  room — a  spacious,  oak- 


PORTIA  27 

paneled  apartment,  with  an  octagonal  oratory, 
built  out  from  an  abbreviated  corner. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Patrick  Stuart,  hospitably, 
and,  closing  the  window,  returned  to  his  com- 
fortable position. 

The  other  flung  himself  into  a  basket-chair  and 
crossed  his  legs. 

"Anything  new  ?"  inquired  the  vicar. 

Paul  Gotch  yawned. 

"A  hitherto  defaulting  ancestor  of  mine,"  he 
remarked  quizzically,  "has  taken  unto  himself 
flesh  and  blood  and  submitted  them  for  my  ap- 
proval." 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Patrick  Stuart,  "you 
don't  mean  that  your  father " 

"Exactly,"  interrupted  the  son  of  Christopher 
Gotch. 

"Dear  me!"  commented  the  vicar,  falling  into 
an  exclamatory  climax;  "and  may  I  ask ?" 

"What  I  thought  of  him?"  concluded  Paul. 
"By  all  means:  he  is  a  man  rather  like  myself,  I 
fancy — he  came  out  of  the  affair  very  cleverly." 

"And  your  mother?" 

Paul  laughed — not  unkindly.  "Objurgatory 
to  a  degree,"  he  answered. 

Patrick  Stuart  nursed  his  ankle.  "Did — did 
anything  happen?"  he  ventured. 

"N-no,"  decided  the  narrator  thoughtfully.  "I 
was  obliged  to  present  my  ancestor  with  his  pass- 
port. There  was  no  sputtering;  he  saved  me  the 
trouble  of  conducting  him  to  the  frontier.  I  had 


28  'A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

to  try  to  sentence  him  almost  impromptu,  how- 
ever, and  with  my  nerves  shattered  by  a  previous 
interview  with  my  mother.  You  know  my  fond- 
ness for  the  chiaroscuro  of  a  hayloft?" 

The  vicar  assented. 

"She  came  to  inform  me  of  my  father's  ar- 
rival," explained  Paul,  "and  mounted  to  the  dim 
recess  where  Dobbin's  bedding  and  provender  are 
stored.  Dobbin  is  our  horse-of-all-work,  an  eld- 
erly, inoffensive  animal,  long  since  reconciled  to 
Gary's  tip-wagons.  When  my  mother  found  me 
I  was  reciting  'Faust'  from  a  divan  of  straw.  I 
must  have  betrayed  an  undue  interest  in  my  long- 
lost  father ;  her  jealousy  caught  fire,  and  we  had 
— a  scene.  The  wanderer's  return  had  driven  her 
to  the  verge  of  hysteria;  unwittingly  I  precipi- 
tated it,  with  startling  results." 

Paul  screwed  himself  down  into  the  lounge. 

"I  suppose  wife-desertion  is  an  unpardonable 
sin,"  he  observed,  with  a  tentative  air. 

"I  should  say  so,"  pronounced  Patrick  Stuart, 
meditatively. 

"So  should  I,"  agreed  Gotch  the  younger,  in 
the  same  doubtful  fashion. 

The  vicar  looked  at  him  swiftly  and  began  upon 
a  question. 

"Is  your ?" 

"My  ancestor,"  suggested  Paul. 

"Yes— is  he  well-to-do?" 

"He  said  as  much,"  was  the  reply,  "and  some- 
how I  believed  him." 


PORTIA  29 

"Did  he — did  he  make  any  overtures  to — to 
your  mother?"  asked  Patrick  Stuart. 

"I  believe  not."     Paul  Gotch  smiled  grimly. 

"What  was  the  object  of  his  return?" 

Paul  touched  himself  on  the  breast  and  the 
vicar  nodded,  comprehending. 

The  two  men  relapsed  into  silence ;  the  plight 
of  Christopher  Gotch  was  not  without  its  appeal 
to  their  masculine  souls. 

At  last  Paul  spoke  out  of  his  reverie,  the  con- 
trolling thought  expressing  itself  in  an  abstracted 
sentence. 

"They  must  have  loved  each  other — once,"  he 
murmured. 

"Who?"  asked  Patrick  Stuart — albeit  he 
knew. 

"My  father  and  mother,"  said  Gotch.  "It 
was  very  strange  to  see  them,  Mr.  Stuart — how 
strange  I  can  not  describe.  I  am  because  what 
has  been  has  been.  Not  all  the  desertions  in  the 
world  can  undo  me;  not  eternity  can  undo  me — 
as  we  believe.  And  to-day — you  should  have 
seen  my  mother's  face." 

The  vicar's  glance  met  that  of  Paul  Gotch, 
and  he  moved  his  head  sympathetically. 

Paul  leaned  forward — a  sudden  excitement  dis- 
solving his  assumption  of  cynical  indifference. 

"Of  course  she  was  in  the  right,"  he  went  on, 
"but  do  you  know  of  what  it  reminded  me?" 

Patrick  Stuart  made  a  negative  sign.  He  was 
gazing  curiously  at  the  shining  eyes  and  working 


30  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

countenance.     Paul  Gotch  answered  him  with  a 
fierce  energy. 

"That  speech  of  Lucifer  in  Mrs.  Browning's 
'Drama  of  Exile/  "  he  said ;  "yon  know  it — 

'Countless  angel-faces  still  and  stern 
Pressed  out  upon  me  from  the  level  heavens 
Adown  the  abysmal  spaces  and  I  fell, 
Trampled  down  by  your  stillness  and  struck  dumb 
By  the  sight  within  your  eyes — 'twas  then  I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angel-hood.'  " 

The  vicar  shook  his  head  dissentingly.  "The 
appeal  ad  misericordiam"  he  objected ;  "that  ap- 
peal can  be  made  on  behalf  of  a  martyr  or  a 
gallows-bird — it  is  pathetic  per  se!' 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  faint  crooning  sound, 
that  slipped  insensibly  into  actual  melody  and 
articulate  utterance.  It  came  from  the  couch 
where  Elsie  lay — to  all  appearance  sound  asleep. 
A  fold  of  the  scarlet  cloak  covered  the  lower 
part  of  her  face — the  heavy  ring  of  yellow  metal 
had  fallen  from  her  childish  wrist  and  lay  upon 
the  floor,  its  blood-red  ornament  burning  in  the 
lamp-light — a  symbol  of  human  passion  jewel- 
ling eternity. 

The  words  that  came  to  the  ears  of-  the  two 
men  were  strangely  apposite — they  wedded  them- 
selves to  an  old  and  grieving  air — 

"Oh,  waes  me  for  the  'oor,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met, 
Oh,  waes  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 
That  our  first  tryst  was  set. 


PORTIA  31 

"Oh,  waes  me  for  the  loanin'  gree«. 

Where  we  were  wont  to  gae, 
And  waes  me  for  the  destinie 
That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae." 

The  vocalist  stopped  abruptly. 

"What  a  remarkable  thing/'  whispered  Paul 
Gotch,  "to  sing  in  one's  sleep !" 

Patrick  Stuart  smiled. 

"Elsie  is  a  veritable  witch,"  he  answered,  low- 
ering his  own  voice.  "Whether  she  is  asleep  or 
not,  neither  you  nor  I  will  ever  be  quite  certain." 

"That  is  part  of  a  wonderful  Scotch  poem," 
observed  Paul  Gotch,  in  the  same  fashion;  "I 
have  heard  Gary  recite,  and  what  is  more  tragic 
still,  sing  it.  But  how  did  she  come  to  know  it?" 

"Sh-h-h!"  warned  the  vicar,  "she  is  indisput- 
ably awake  now." 

The  demure  figure,  half-woman,  half-child,  had 
risen  to  its  feet,  and  stood  sightlessly  regarding 
them. 

"Good-evening,  Mr.  Gotch,"  observed  Elsie, 
"you  see  I  have  been  making  a  fool  of  myself — 
or  rather  Justine  has.  Will  you  give  me  my  cap  ? 
— I  dropped  it  somewhere  there." 

Paul  took  up  the  desired  article  from  the  side 
of  the  vicar's  chair  and  took  it  across  to  her.  She 
put  it  gravely  on  her  head  and  assumed  a  the- 
atrical pose. 

"Now  I  am  Portia  again,"  she  told  him — "only 
prettier,  Justine  says." 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  she  were  art- 


32  A    SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

less  or  fantastic,  so  elusive  were  her  changes  of 
manner  and  e.xpression.  \Yithout  warning,  she 
made  for  the  folding  doors  by  which,  an  hour 
earlier,  she  had  entered. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Gotch  :  good-night,  Dearie," 
she  said,  groping  for  the  handle.  Paul  moved  to 
turn  it,  but  before  he  could  cross  the  floor  she  had 
passed  out.  He  looked  questioningly  at  the  vicar. 

Patrick  Stuart  opened  his  palms,  Gallic  fash- 
ion. 

"I  never  attempt  to  fathom  Elsie's  proceed- 
ings/' he  confessed;  "she  has  become  more  of  an 
enigma  to  me  than  ever." 

"What  a  pity!''  replied  Paul,  musingly;  "I 
should  like  to  know  how  Elsie  learned  that  par- 
ticular Scotch  song." 


CHAPTER  IV 

VOX   ET  PRAETEREA   NIHIL    . 

To  the  east  of  the  Gotch  brickfield,  and  imme- 
diately behind  the  long  garden  and  paddock  of 
the  vicarage,  was  a  patch  of  cultivated  ground, 
enclosed  on  three  sides  by  a  stout  paling,  on  the 
fourth  by  the  boundary  wall  of  St.  Faith's.  In 
this  reclaimed  portion  of  the  wilderness  flourished 
an  extraordinary  medley  of  flowering  plants, 
shrubs,  and  kitchen  stuff.  It  boasted  a  small 
lawn,  a  "rockery,"  and  a  forcing  frame  or  two, 
and  was,  in  some  sort,  a  detached  supplement  to 
the  narrow  border  of  grass  and  double  daisies 
which  surrounded  the  white  cottage,  half  a  mile 
away. 

Here,  under  a  yellow  afternoon  sun,  a  man  was 
at  work  weeding.  His  long  arms  and  large, 
coarse  hands  bore  a  strange  disproportion  to  his 
short,  squarely-set  frame.  A  thick  black  beard 
hid  his  mouth  and  chin,  but  his  black  eyes  were 
piercing  and  intelligent,  and  when  he  straight- 
ened himself  to  draw  an  occasional  marked  in- 
spiration his  teeth  showed  themselves  to  be  sin- 
gularly clear  and  even.  At  such  moments,  also, 

33 


34  A    SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

his  pose  became  as  vigorous  and  alert  as  when, 
standing  on  an  angle  of  the  engine-house  block, 
he  had  gazed  after  the  retreating  form  of  Chris- 
topher Gotch. 

His  task  completed,  he  emptied  the  basket  of 
uprooted  growths  on  to  the  inevitable  compost- 
heap,  and  going  across  to  another  bed  stooped  to 
tie  up  a  row  of  carnations.  Embarked  upon  the 
process,  he  began  to  sing  to  himself  in  the  pleas- 
ant abstraction  of  the  man  who  is  laboring  con 
amore.  His  voice  was  a  rarely  full  and  delicate 
tenor,  with  a  bird-like  sweetness  in  it.  The  song 
was  one  of  those  quivering  lyric  poems  which  the 
erotic  genius  of  the  Scots  has  heaped  upon  the 
altar  of  the  grand  passion — 

"Her  bower  casement  is  latticed  wi'  flowers 

Tied  up  wi'  siller  thread, 
An'  comely  sits  she  in  the  midst 

Men's  langing  een  to  feed; 
She  waves  the  ringlets  frae  her  cheek 

Wi'  her  milky,  milky  ban' 
An'  her  cheeks  seem  touched  wi'  the  fiager  o'  God, 

My  bonnie  Lady  Ann. 

"The  morning  clud  is  tasselt  wi'  gowd 

Like  my  luve's  broidered  cap, 
And  on  the  mantle  that  my  luve  wears 

Is  mony  a  gowden  drap; 
Her  bonnie  ee-bree's  a  holy  arch 

Cast  by  nae  earthly  ban', 
And  tne  breath  of  heaven  is  atween  the  lips 

O'  my  bonnie  Lady  Ann." 

The  singing  ceased,  and  the  dwarf  went  on 


VOX  ET  PR  ART  ERE  A  NIHIL        35 

silently  with  his  occupation.  Some  one  spoke  to 
him  suddenly. 

"That  is  very  pretty,  fairy  prince,  is  there  no 
more?" 

Allan  Gary  looked  up.  On  the  low  sandstone 
slip  which  backed  the  carnation-clumps,  Elsie 
Stuart  was  leaning.  Her  sensitive  face  was 
framed  in  a  loose  gray  hood — the  nebulous,  ap- 
pealing gray  of  the  dove — and  a  gray  cloak  cov- 
ered her  shoulders.  The  coral  lining  of  the  hood 
threw  a  tremulous  glow  upon  her  cheeks  and 
temples,  and  her  chestnut  hair  added  a  peculiar, 
yet  not  discordant,  note  of  color. 

A  soft  light  came  into  the  dwarf's  eyes;  his 
powerful  chest  swelled  and  sank  as  he  studied 
the  picture.  Yet  he  answered  deliberately. 

"There's  nae  mair  o't  to  the  purpose,"  he  told 
her. 

Elsie  plucked  at  the  clasp  of  the  cloak. 

"Who  taught  it  to  you?"  she  inquired. 

"Naebody,"  replied  the  Scot;  "I  juist  read  it 
in  an  auld  book." 

The  blind  girl  threw  back  her  hood  petulantly. 
The  sightless  orbs  gleamed  with  pathetic  anger. 

"Oh,  how  I  wish  I  were  like  other  people, 
fairy  prince !"  cried  the  pouting  lips ;  "I  can  only 
read  a  few  silly  books,  and  Justine  says  there  are 
millions  she  could  read  if  she  had  time." 

Allan  Gary  sighed  mournfully.  Elsie  put  out 
her  hands  toward  him. 

"Why  won't  you  come  near  me?"  she  cried; 


36  A    SON    OF   AUSTERITY 

"I  wanted  to  touch  your  face,  you  sounded  so 
sorry  for  me  then." 

The  dwarf  did  not  answer ;  he  was  poring  upon 
the  eager  countenance  of  the  blind  girl. 

"And  you  won't  even  tell  me  your  name!" 
urged  Elsie. 

Allan  Gary  shook  his  head  in  an  involuntary 
denial  of  the  implied  request. 

"I  canna,  little  leddy,"  he  said,  piteously;  "oh, 
I  canna.  If  I  tauld  ye,  ye  would  find  oot  a' 
aboot  me,  and  ye  would  na  come  to  speak  to  me 
or  to  listen  to  ma  songs  ony  mair." 

"But  I  would,"  promised  Elsie,  "and  surely 
your  name  wouldn't  tell  me  that  much." 

"It  would  tell  ye  ower  much  for  ye  to  bide  my 
presence,"  replied  the  dwarf,  miserably. 

Elsie  yielded  the  point. 

"Well,  come  and  let  me  touch  your  face,"  she 
begged;  "then  I  shall  know  you." 

"Na,  na,"  protested  the  dwarf,  stepping  back, 
"it  mauna  be,  little  leddy,  it  mauna  be." 

"Oh,  you  are  mean,"  retorted  the  appellant. 

Allan  Gary  winced. 

"Ye  wouldna  say  that  if  ye  kent  a',"  he  per- 
sisted steadily. 

"Tell  me  all,  then,"  demanded  Elsie,  with  a 
show  of  reason. 

"Na,  na,"  repeated  the  other,  "I  canna,  I  canna  ; 
it  would  be  to  say  guid-bye  t'  ye  for  ever." 

The  blind  girl  pursed  her  lips  and  sulked. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  feel  like,  fairy  prince  ?" 
she  asked  abruptly. 


VOX  ET  PRAETEREA  NIHIL        37 

The  dwarf's  answer  was  a  sad  negative. 

"I  feel,"  said  Elsie,  with  a  startling  abandon, 
"as  if  this  wall  were  the  end  of  the  real  world, 
and  that  I  should  like  to  climb  on  it  and  jump 
out — into  fairyland." 

"There  is  nae  fairyland  here,"  the  Scot  told 
her  sorrowfully,  "naething  but  a  bit  o'  garden." 

"Whose  garden?"  demanded  Elsie. 

"It  belongs  to  Mistress  Gotch,  she  wha  owns 
the  brickworks  near  by,"  explained  Allan  Gary, 
nervously. 

"That  will  be  Mr.  Gotch's  mother,"  said  Elsie ; 
"he  knows  my  father.  But  why  do  you  come  to 
her  garden  so  often,  fairy  prince?" 

The  Scot  bit  his  lip. 

"Because,"  he  said,  hoarsely,  "because  o'  a  lit- 
tle leddy  'at  lives  on  the  ither  side  o'  a  stane  wa'." 

The  blind  girl  clapped  her  hands  delightedly. 

"Oh,  I  am  glad!"  she  cried. 

Allan  Gary  trembled. 

"And  now,"  added  Elsie,  returning  to  the  at- 
tack, "you  will  tell  me  what  you  are  like,  won't 
you?" 

"Maybe,"  said  the  dwarf,  evasively;  "but  ye 
tell  me  first  what  ye  think  I  am  like." 

Elsie  reflected  a  moment,  and  then  answered 
dreamily. 

"You  are  taller  than  me,  though  not  much, 
and  oh,  so  graceful  and  brave,  like  a  fairy  prince. 
That's  why  I  call  you  'fairy  prince' — and  because 
you're  so  mysterious.  Then,  your  face  is  very 


38  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

proud,  and  set  as  though  you  feared  nothing. 
But  your  mouth  is  kind,  and  your  breath  is  like 
the  scent  of  a  tea-rose.  And  your  hands " 

Allan  Gary  looked  at  his  broad,  thick  palms 
and  knotted  fingers. 

"Your  hands  are  very  soft  and  gentle,  but  very 
strong,  so  that  you  could  pick  me  up  and  carry 
me  all  over  the  world,  without  ever  getting  tired. 
I  would  love  some  one  to  carry  me  always,  my 
feet  get  so  stiff  and  my  side  aches.  But  you — 
you  walk  over  the  grass  so  lightly  and  yet  so 
proudly — oh,  I  know ! — and  because  you  are  so 
beautiful  you  will  not  tell  me  who  you  are,  so 
that  you  can  go  away  when  you  are  tired  of  me, 
and  I  shall  never  be  able  to  find  you  again  be- 
cause I  do  not  know  what  you  are  like  or  any- 
thing about  you," 

Her  voice  broke  as  she  reached  the  end  of  her 
involved  concluding  sentence. 

"Na,  na,"  said  the  dwarf,  huskily,  "I'm  nane 
o'  thae  things — God  knows  Wha  made  me  as  I 
am! — but  until  ye  send  me  awa'  I'll  no'  leave 
ye,  He  is  my  witness.  But  promise  me  ae  thing." 

Elsie  assented  eagerly. 

"If  ony  ane  should  see  ye  speakin'  tae  me," 
said  Allan  Gary,  "an'  should  begin  to  tell  ye 
aboot  me,  ye  will  stap  yer  ears  and  rin  awa'  ?" 

She  promised — reluctantly,  yet  pleased  that  he 
should  proffer  a  request. 

"But  won't  you  do  something  more  than  talk 


VOX  ET  PR  ART  ERE  A  NIHIL        39 

to  me?"  she  besought  him;  "see,  touch  my  hand" 
— and  she  held  out  her  dainty  fingers. 

The  dwarf's  face  distorted  with  painful  emo- 
tion. 

"Dinna  ask  it,"  he  said ;  her  arm  dropped  de- 
spondently. 

"Bide  a  wee,"  cried  the  Scot,  moved  with  a 
thought.  "I'll  pit  ye  a  waft  o'  heaven  in  yer 
nostrils  that'll  show  ye  I'm  a  leevin'  soul  and  no' 
a  bodiless  voice." 

He  ran  clumsily  across  the  plot  of  garden  to 
a  point  where  a  strip  of  hawthorn  hedge  had  been 
enclosed  by  the  wooden  paling,  and  tore  down  a 
bough  that  was  still  in  flower.  Elsie  remained 
passive,  awaiting  his  return. 

"Pit  oot  yer  haund,"  he  instructed,  when  he 
came  back,  having  trimmed  the  hedge  of  the 
thorns. 

She  obeyed. 

Allan  Gary  held  the  mass  of  odorous  blossoms 
within  her  reach. 

"Mind  yersel'  wi'  the  sma'  prickles,"  he  said. 

Elsie  took  the  branch  in  her  arms,  and  cried 
out  at  the  perfume. 

"Is  it  a  flower?"  she  asked. 

"A  hale  world  of  flooers,"  answered  the  Scot; 
"ye  maun  pit  it  in  water  and  it  will  live  for  days. 
They  ca'  it  'may.' ' 

The  blind  girl  was  hanging  over  the  creamy 
bloom  in  passionate  adoration. 


40  A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

"Did  ye -never  smell  it  before?"  said  Allan 
Gary,  surprised. 

"Never,"  confessed  Elsie;  "I  am  horribly  ig- 
norant, fairy  prince.  You  see,  I  have  nearly 
always  had  an  ache  of  some  sort,  and  then,  not 
being  like  other  people 

This  was  her  one  periphrasis  for  her  lack  of 
sight. 

"I  never  could  get  on  with  my  lessons.  Once 
I  went  to  a  school,  but  it  frightened  me,  and  I 
never  went  again.  Then  I  had  a  governess,  but 
Justine  and  she  quarreled  dreadfully,  and  so  I 
didn't  learn  much.  Since  I've  been  able  to  talk 
to  you  I've  understood  quite  a  lot  of  things  for 
the  first  time.'' 

The  dwarf  was  contemplating  her  worship- 
ingly ;  a  fugitive  anxiety  interrupted  his  reverie. 

"Have  ye  never  spoken  o'  me  to  your  freend, 
Mistress  Justine?"  he  inquired. 

Elsie's  expression  grew  dazzling  in  its  astute- 
ness. 

"Only  about  a  fairy  prince  I  knew,"  she  re- 
plied, "and  then,  you  see,  I  invent  such  a  lot, 
they  don't  believe  a  word  I  say." 

"Tell  me  another  thing,"  pursued  Allan  Gary, 
wistfully ;  "what  made  ye  believe  I  was  sae  bon- 
nie?" 

His  picturesque  neighbor  drew  a  luxurious 
breath. 

"The  way  you  sing,"  she  said;  "fairy  prince, 
if  you  are  only  half  as  beautiful  as  your  voice, 


VOX  ET  PRAETEREA  XIHIL        41 

you  must  be  as  beautiful  as  an  angel.  Do  you 
suppose  they  sing  songs  like  yours  in  heaven. 
fairy  prince?" 

"In  the  tradeetional  heaven,"  remarked  the 
Scot,  dryly,  "the  angels  are  no'  supposed  to  have 
sweethearts,  and  sin'  sweetheirtin'  is  the  reason 
for  sic  songs  as  mine,  I  shouldna  look  for  o\ver 
mony  o'  them  in  the  place  ye  name." 

"H'm !"  mused  Elsie ;  "and  what  is  the  tradi- 
tional heaven,  fairy  prince?" 

Allan  Gary  reflected. 

"That,"  he  said,  "where  they  coont  on  spendin' 
an  eternal  Sabbath  in  a  transcendental  kirk." 

"Dear  me,"  commented  the  puzzled  auditor, 
"and  what  other  sort  of  heaven  is  there?" 

The  dwarf  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  lucid  zenith. 
"That,"  he  answered,  "in  which  the  best  God  we 
can  think  o'  will  mak'  our  best  thocts  come  true." 

"Well,"  decided  Elsie,  dubiously,  "anything's 
better  than  the  first  one." 

A  swelling  clamor  rose  upon  their  ears — a 
clamor  that  grew  and  grew  until  the  air  rocked 
in  eddies  of  tempestuous  sound. 

"That's  the  tea-gong,"  said  the  blind  girl ;  "they 
always  beat  it  like  that  for  me — they  never  know 
where  I  am.  Good-bye,  fairy  prince." 

She  sprang  up,  and  passing  around  a  screen- 
ing privet  hedge,  hurried  towards  the  house. 

Undisturbed  by  the  brazen  din  that  had  re- 
called Elsie  to  the  vicarage,  her  father  was  pacing 
at  the  moment  the  floor  of  the  sunny  sitting-room 


42  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

— pacing  it  with  restless,  varying  strides,  the  mus- 
cular expression  of  impotent  anger.  In  a  deep 
chair  by  the  fire  sat  a  woman — a  woman  with  a 
dark  skin,  thin  lips,  and  glittering  dark  eyes.  Her 
hands  were  yellow  and  shrunken,  but  supple  and 
even  aristocratic.  They  were  busily  plying  a 
netting  shuttle,  the  product  of  which  lay  on  the 
lap  of  her  silk  gown  in  delicate  confusion. 

"Justine/'  burst  out  the  vicar,  savagely,  "I  tell 
you  I  will  not  have  it.  Do  you  hear?" 

"Without  doubt,"  answered  the  other;  "you 
speak  loud,  and  I  can  not  shut  my  ears." 

Patrick  Stuart  reddened;  the  contempt  of  the 
retort  was  obtrusive. 

"Understand  distinctly,"  he  went  on,  striving 
for  self-control,  "the  next  time  I  catch  you" — 
the  contingency  was  somewhat  vulgarly  ex- 
pressed, but  the  vicar's  anger  had  burst  his  teg- 
umentary  culture — "fostering  the  insane  vanity 
which  Elsie  inherits " 

Justine  sneered. 

"Certainly,"  she  observed,  with  elaborate  satire, 
"let  us  calumniate  the  dead;  the  dead  can  deny 
nothing." 

"If  I  calumniate  the  dead,"  persisted  the  vicar 
hotly,  "it  is  because  the  calumny  is  true." 

The  statement  was  suspiciously  like  a  contra- 
diction in  terms,  but  it  passed  unchallenged — 
Justine  was  in  no  mood  to  split  hairs.  She 
laughed  provokingly. 


VOX  ET  PRAETEREA  NIH1L 

I  U 

"True?"  she  repeated;  "la  pauvrc  Gabrielle! 
— to  be  a  woman  and  to  marry  a  priest !" 

Patrick  Stuart  dragged  at  the  reins  of  his 
anger  and  answered  quietly. 

"That  is  sheer  impertinence,  Justine,"  he  told 
her,  "and  you  know  it.  My  commands  are  ex- 
plicit— you  will  disobey  them  at  your  peril." 

Justine  leaped  up,  the  blood  flaming  in  her  sal- 
low cheeks. 

"Bah !"  she  exclaimed,  snapping  her  fingers  at 
him — "that  for  your  perils ! — that  for  your  com- 
mands; I  despise  them,  I  laugh  at  them,  I  dis- 
obey them — always,  always,  always!  I  will 
make  la  petite  happy  until  I  am  dead — ah !"  she 
interrupted  herself  sharply,  though  the  vicar  had 
not  spoken ;  "you  wish  it  may  be  soon,  but  I  am 
well  and  strong,  I  shall  live  many  years.  La 
petite  is  mine — mine,"  she  ran  on,  spitting  the 
words  out  in  short  stinging  clauses  that  made  the 
English  speech  sound  like  her  native  tongue; 
"her  mother  gave  her  to  me,  and  I  will  make  her 
happy.  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Stuart,  I  will  tell  her  the 
charming  stories  that  you  detest;  I  will  repeat 
her  the  little  songs  that  weary  you;  I  will  teach 
her  to  make  Juliet  and  Portia  and  Cleopatre,  and 
she  shall  be  a  woman,  and  not  your  daughter  at 
all.  Mon  Dieu!"  she  apostrophized  him  fiercely, 
"am  I  an  infant  that  you  command  and  command 
and  command?" 

Patrick  Stuart  quailed  before  the  flood  of  Jus- 


44  'A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

tine's  indignant  oratory.  She  saw  it,  and  pressed 
her  advantage. 

'•'del!"  she  cried  crisply,  with  a  stamp  of  her 
foot ;  "did  Gabrielle  Andre " 

"Gabrielle  Stuart."  interrupted  the  vicar. 

Justine  made  a  wry  face  and  evaded  the  cor- 
rection. 

"Did  the  poor  Gabrielle,"  she  said,  "desire  me 
to  remafn  always  with  la  petite,  to  keep  her  always 
gay,  always  like  a  little  bird,  a  kitten,  a  butterfly, 
only  that  I  should  be  disarm,  retreat,  dismiss,  by 
a  priest !  Listen,  Mr.  Stuart,"  Justine  parted  the 
surname  into  two  contumelious  syllables,  "have 
the  goodness,  if  you  please,  to  retire  on  the  in- 
stant, or  I  dismiss  myself.  Perhaps  you  desire 
that  I  whisper  to  your  parishioners  how  the 
mother  of  la  petite  was  once  upon  the  sta — age?" 

Patrick  Stuart  cringed — it  was  not  the  first 
time  that  threat  had  fallen  upon  his  will  as  the 
whip-lash  falls  upon  the  cur's  back.  Justine 
drew  herself  up  scornfully,  anticipating  the  effect 
of  her  ultimatum. 

"I  have  my  dismissal,  then?"  she  demanded. 

The  vicar  covered  his  face.  When  he  looked 
up  again  his  cheeks  were  ashen-gray. 

"You  are  a  madwoman,  Justine  Dupin,"  he 
began  hoarsely,  and  stopped.  A  whimsical  mel- 
ody was  nearing  them  along  the  corridor  without. 
He  could  distinguish  the  words  with  increasing 
precision ;  they  were  bizarre  in  the  extreme. 


VOX  ET  PRAETEREA  NIHIL        45 

"Life's  a  hostel  kept  by  Fate 
Where  upon  our  way  we  wait — 
Sing,  sing,  let  the  merry  cymbals  ring: 
Life's  a  hostel  where  we  drain 
Draughts  of  pleasure,  draughts  of  pain." 

The  door  opened  and  Elsie  entered.  In  her 
arms  she  carried  the  bough  of  blossoming  haw- 
thorn that  Allan  Gary  had  given  to  her. 

"Justine,"  she  called,  "look  what  I've  got— 
a  fairy  prince  gave  it  to  me." 

Patrick  Stuart's  mouth  fixed  sternly  and  he 
would  have  spoken.  The  Frenchwoman  scowled 
him  into  silence. 

"Mechante!"  she  declared ;  "what  will  the  fairy 
princesses  say?" 

Elsie  laughed  coquettishly,  and  the  vicar 
flashed  a  threat  across  the  room. 

"Smell,  Justine,  smell,"  she  cried,  and  waved 
the  branch  so  that  the  white  bloom  rained  about 
her,  showering  Patrick  Stuart  with  the  pallid 
flowerets. 

"It  is  like  heaven,"  said  Elsie,  unconscious  of 
his  presence ;  "not  the  traditional  heaven,  Justine, 
but  the  other.  Doesn't  the  scent  make  you  feel 
as  if  something  was  going  to  happen  ?"  She  took 
up  her  song  and  carried  it  on  fantastically. 

"Fate,  Fate,  the  hostess,  gay  coquette, 

Laughs,  laughs,  whene'er  we  frown  or  fret. 
If  we  groan  and  moan,  alack,  we  must  bundle,  we  must 
pack; 

The  hostel's  full,  the  night  is  late, 
'Tis  in  vain  to  frown  at  Fate." 


46  A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

The  vicar  turned  and  went  out;  the  last  line 
had  smitten  cruelly  on  his  ears. 

"  "Pis  in  vain  to  frown  at  Fate." 

Justine  caught  at  the  wild  refrain  and  sang  it 
with  her  excited  charge. 

"Sing,  sing,  sing;  let  the  merry  cymbals  ring." 


CHAPTER    V 

A    LETTER    AND    A    SERENADE 

"Do  you  mind  reading  it  over  again?"  asked 
the  vicar,  musingly. 

Paul  altered  the  position  of  the  lamp,  and 
turned  to  the  beginning  of  the  small  folio. 

"My  DEAR  BOY,—" 
he  began: 

"I  admired  your  action  the  other  day  ex- 
ceedingly, and  I  may  say  frankly  that  I  admit — 
abstractly — its  justice;  but  can  I  not  plead  for 
some  mercy  at  your  hands?  I  deserted  your 
mother  when  I  was  not  a  great  deal  older  than 
you  are  now,  and  I  do  not  attempt  to  minimize 
the  heinousness  of  that  proceeding  when  I  say 
that  I  was  overcome  by  the  hopeless  impasse  in 
which  I  found  myself,  as  a  result  of  marrying  at 
a  time  when  I  could  scarcely  earn  bread  for  one, 
let  alone  two." 

There  was  a  pause ;  the  just  completed  sentence 
had  been  a  long  one.  Patrick  Stuart  did  not 
avail  himself  of  the  interruption  to  make  any 

47 


48  A    SOX    OF   AUSTERITY 

comment — he  felt  that  the  inchoate  glibness  of 
the  composition  had  struck  as  unpleasantly  upon 
the  ears  of  the  younger  man  as  it  had  upon  his 
own.  Paul  resumed  his  task  with  impenetrable 
self-possession. 

"I  could  make  no  headway  in  England,  and  I 
determined  to  go  out  alone  to  the  States,  hoping 
to  find  a  foothold  there,  and,  sooner  or  later, 
send  for  your  mother.  Upon  landing  in  New 
York,  I  was  plunged,  by  the  mysterious  loss  of 
my  wallet,  into  absolute  and  God-forsaken  pov- 
erty, and  being  ashamed  to  write  until  I  could 
send  your  mother  some  money,  I  put  it  off  from 
day  to  day.  Finally,  I  went  West,  and  began 
to  do  well ;  but  my  courage  failed  me  when  I 
thought  of  writing,  and  I  planned  to  come  home 
and  explain  viva  voce.  Then  I  suffered  a  sud- 
den reverse  of  fortune — lost  eighty  thousand  dol- 
lars in  twenty- four  hours — and  had  to  work  like 
a  slave  to  make  it  all  over  again,  which  I  did, 
and  to-day  am  worth  a  million  and  a  half." 

Paul  knew  that  Patrick  Stuart  was  regarding 
him  with  a  gentle  keenness  that  verged  upon  cyni- 
cism, and  guessed  that  the  vicar  was  preparing 
to  discount  a  surrender.  An  odd  expression  hov- 
ered upon  the  reader's  lips  as  he  went  on  with  the 
letter. 

"I  am  not  going  to  tell  you  any  lies  about  my 
feelings  for  your  mother;  you're  too  clever  to 
believe  me  if  I  did,  else  I  might,  for  I  can't  bear 


'A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE       49 

to  be  out  of  friends  with  you.  I  came  home  be- 
cause I  heard  of  you  from  a  man  I  met  in  Xew 
York  City,  Captain  Peters,  you  remember  him. 
of  the  'Pocahontas.'  I  never  had  but  one  child  in 
my  life,  and  I'm  mighty  anxious  that  we  should 
be  chums.  I  can't  write  any  more  about  it;  I'm 
fifty-six,  Paul,  but  the  very  thought  of  you  brings 
the  tears  into  my  eyes  like  any  woman's.  Write 
and  say  you'll  see  me  sometimes — I'll  settle  down 
in  London  and  come  up  here  once  a  month  to  see 
you.  Your  mother  shall  have  nine-tenths  of  you 
— nineteen-twentieths  if  you  like,  only  don't 
harden  your  heart  against  me.  My  God,  but  I 
should  like  you  to  have  shaken  hands  with  me. 
It's  hardly  good  enough  that  a  man  shouldn't 
touch  his  own  flesh  and  blood  for  ever,  because 
he  was  once  a  bit  of  a  coward.  Write  me  a  line, 
my  boy;  you  may  have  youngsters  of  your  own 
some  day,  and  the  devil  may  tempt  you  to  sin 
against  them.  I  loved  your  mother  once  (as  she 
loved  me,  though  she  did  keep  a  per  contra  ac- 
count with  all  my  faults  in  it — you'll  believe  the 
balance  wasn't  too  big!)  But  you're  my  own, 
and  I  can't  let  you  hate  me.  Write  to  me,  Paul, 
for  God's  sake." 

Paul  Gotch  lay  down  the  pages  of  lank  scrawl, 
and  surveyed  his  auditor  inquiringly. 
"Well?"  he  observed. 
The  vicar  pondered. 
"It  may  be  only  clever,"  he  decided  at  length ; 


5o  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"but  it  rings  true  —  in  parts.     What  is  your  an- 
swer?" 

The  son  of  Christopher  Gotch  took  up  a  pen 
and  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  towards  him.  He 
wrote  steadily,  and  Patrick  Stuart  waited.  In  a 
moment  Paul  Gotch  handed  him  the  brief  manu- 
script. It  ran  — 


"On  July  the  fifth,  1873,  Mr-  and  Mrs.  Chris- 
topher Harding  sailed  for  New  York  in  the  'City 
of  Toronto.'  ' 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  anything?"  de- 
manded the  vicar. 

"I  understand,"  replied  Paul  coolly,  "that  my 
father  rejoiced  in  a  'middle  name.'  The  'middle 
name'  was  Harding." 

He  put  a  double  line  under  the  seventh  and 
eighth  words  of  the  writing,  so  that  the  clause 
"and  Mrs."  stood  out  with  redoubled  signifi- 
cance. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Patrick  Stuart,  comprehend- 
ing, "how  very  lamentable."  The  adjective  re- 
ferred to  the  breach  of  morality  on  the  part  of 
the  said  Christopher  Harding  Gotch,  not  to  his 
possession  of  an  alternative  cognomen. 

"Have  you  a  Bible  handy?"  inquired  the 
younger  Gotch,  desisting  from  his  occupation  of 
crossing  the  t's  and  dotting  the  i's  of  his  laconic 
communication. 

The  vicar  reached  to  a  luxurious  calf-bound 
volume,  the  other  opened  it,  turned  to  the  Book 


A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE       51 

of  the  Prophet  Malachi,  verified  a  passage  and 
copied  it  on  to  the  slip.  It  was  a  grim,  yet  sim- 
ple saying — 

The  Lord  hath  been  witness  between  thee  and 
the  wife  of  thy  youth,  against  whom  thou  hast 
dealt  treacherously. 

Paul  Gotch  folded  the  note,  guiltless  as  it  was 
of  superscription  or  signature,  and  asked  for  an 
envelope.  The  vicar  gave  him  one ;  he  placed  the 
ultimatum  inside  it,  moistening  the  adhesive  mar- 
gins of  the  flap,  and  closing  the  slender  receptacle 
with  quiet  deliberation.  Then  he  addressed  it 
thoughtfully — 

Christopher  Harding  Gotch,  Esq., 

The  Adelphi  Hotel, 

Liverpool. 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  the  only  course  to  pursue," 
said  Patrick  Stuart,  "especially  in  view  of  the 
regrettable  connection  which  is  implied  in  the 
fact,  your  cognizance  of  which  you  reveal  to  him. 
How  did  you  become  aware  of  it?" 

"It  was  my  mother's  trump  card,"  returned 
Paul;  "she  feared  something  of  this  sort,  I  sup- 
pose"— he  motioned  to  the  letter  of  Christopher 
Gotch — "I  found  the  'Toronto's'  passenger  list 
for  that  voyage  on  my  blotting-pad  this  morning. 
The  tell-tale  entry  was  marked  with  a  heavy 
cross — recently  made.  The  ink  is  still  pale. 
Heaven  knows  how  she  got  hold  of  the  thing; 
the  'stars  in  their  courses,'  I  suppose." 


52  A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

''You  have  considered  the  possibility  of  a  coin- 
cidence?" ventured  the  vicar. 

"You  mean  with  regard  to  the  name  Harding?" 
elucidated  Paul.  "Is  not  the  conjunction  with 
that  of  Christopher  almost  tantamount  to  proof?" 

"Circumstantial  evidence."  objected  Patrick 
Stuart,  though  somewhat  feebly  withal. 

"Three  days  before  the  'Toronto'  sailed,"  re- 
joined Paul  Gotch,  gravely,  "my  father  left  his 
home  for  the  last  time.  In  September  of  the 
same  year,  my  mother  tells  me.  she  heard  of  their 
— that  is,  his — presence  in  San  Francisco." 

"He  must  have  gone  saloon,  or  at  least  second- 
class,  for  his  name  to  get  into  the  passenger-list," 
demurred  the  vicar.  "How  could  that  be? — he 
says  he  was  bankrupt  of  funds." 

"My  father."  explained  Paul  dryly,  "is  ob- 
viously more  ingenious  than  honest." 

"Dear  me!"  ejaculated  Patrick  Stuart;  "I  am 
very  sorry  for  your  mother,  Paul." 

"She  is  much  to  be  pitied,  yes."  said  the  son  of 
Selina  Gotch,  without  enthusiasm.  "I  am  a  lit- 
tle sorry  for  my  father ;  he  is  evidently  capable  of 
a  rather  ardent  paternal  affection.  However,  fiat 
justitia,  you  know."  He  went  across  the  room, 
glancing  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"Half-past  ten,"  he  remarked ;  "and  I  have  this 
note  to  post.  Good-night:  I  will  let  myself  out 
as  usual" 

He  unfastened  one  of  the  French  casements, 
stepped  through,  and  disappeared  in  the  external 
gloom. 


A  LETTER  AXD  A  SERENADE      53 

The  vicarage  of  St.  Faith's — a  dingy.  r<mgh- 
he\vn  building  of  two  irregular  stories — lay  west- 
wards of  the  church.  Upon  its  left,  as  it  looked 
towards  the  highroad,  was  a  modest  poplar  plan- 
tation, some  few  saplings  in  which  thrust  their 
clumsy  heads  athwart  the  glass  of  the  vicar's 
library  window.  This  plantation  passed  the  side 
of  the  vicarage,  bordered  the  churchyard,  and 
stopped  at  the  wall  that  bounded  the  flanking  par- 
apet. 

As  Paul  Gotch  passed  along  the  path  which 
frequent  use  had  marked  out  upon  the  clayey 
soil  of  the  plantation — the  convenience  of  the 
route  had  made  it,  in  the  daytlme>  a  favorite  with 
the  inhabitants  of  the  vicarage — he  heard  the 
sound  of  singing,  and  thereat  pausing  to  listen, 
recognized,  to  his  entire  amazement,,  the  voice  o€ 
Allan  Gary.  The  words  of  the  song  were  ro- 
mantic, the  subdued  air  lingering  and  tender. 

"Her  cheeks  are  like  the  apple-bud, 

Her  brow  is  white  as  drifted  snaw, 
Her  lips  are  like  the  berries  red 
That  grow  upon  yon  garden  wa', 

"Ilk  color  that  the  heavens  can  gie 
Does  but  ae  lovely  rainbow  fill; 
Sae  a'  that's  sweet  on  earth  is  she, 
My  bonnie  lass  ayont  the  hill." 

Paul  Gotch  peered  cautiously  ahead,  and  de- 
scried the  shadowy  figure  of  the  singer  perched 
upon  the  low  roof  of  a  shallow  ground-floor  story 
that  abutted  on  the  rear  wall  of  the  vicarage  prop- 


54  A   SOX 

er.  At  a  window  immediately  above  was  a  glim- 
mer of  white  raiment.  The  watcher  stole  a  pace 
or  two  nearer  and  listened.  The  song  was  con- 
tinued. 

"Gin  I'd  been  born  a  belted  knight, 
Or  laird  o'  muckle  gear  and  Ian', 
I  wadna  lay  me  down  to  sleep 
Afore  I  gat  her  lily  han'. 

"But  waes  my  heart!  I'm  but  a  herd, 

An'  sae  maun  tether  down  my  will, 
Yet  come  what  may,  I'll  olimb  the  brae 
And  see  my  lass  ayont  the  hill." 

"Thank  you,  fairy  prince,"  murmured  a  voice, 
which  could  belong  to  no  other  than  Elsie  Stuart ; 
"sing  me  another  one." 

"Na.  na,  I  maun  gang  noo,"  answered  the  Scot, 
sorrowfully;  "God  knowrs  I  hae  been  mad  to 
come  here  at  a'  in  sic  a  fashion." 

"But  I  asked  you  to,  fairy  prince,"  protested 
Elsie;  "you  said  you  would  do  anything  I  asked 
you  to.  And  when  Justine  read  to  me  about 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  I  wanted  some  one  to  come 
and  talk  to  me  at  my  window.  No  one  can  hear 
us.  Besides,  what  if  they  did  ? — you're  not  -a  bit 
nice  to-night,  fairy  prince. 

"  'Oh,  gentle  Romeo, 
If  thou  dost  love,  pronounce  it  faithfully.* 

That  was  what  Juliet  said.  Romeo  was  a  Mon- 
tague, you  know,  and  Juliet  a  Capulet — their 
fathers  hated  each  other.  You're  not  going, 
fairy  prince?" 


A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE      55 

"It's  gettin'  ower  late,  little  leddy,"  whispered 
Allan  Gary. 

"I  don't  care,"  retorted  Elsie,  pettishly,  "it's 
all  night  to  me;  I  believe  you're  afraid.  Romeo 
wasn't  afraid — and  Juliet's  people  wore  swords,'' 
she  supplemented  with  elfin  malice. 

''Gin  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Scot  with  bitter- 
ness, "'tis  for  yersel',  I  hae  naething  to  be  feared 
for,  but  the  loss  o'  ye  for  ever.  The  lo'e  o'  ye 
has  made  a  selfish  fule  o'  me,  or  I  wad  hae  had 
mair  thocht  for  ye  than  ever  to  hae  spoken  t' 
ye,  muckle  less  come  here  at  sic  an  'oor." 

"Fairy  prince,  fairy  prince,"  cried  Elsie  softly, 
"tell  me  that  again;  'lo'e'  means  love,  doesn't  it? 
— you  don't  talk  like  other  people,  fairy  prince, 
I  expect  you  haven't  learned  English  properly, 
like  Justine.  Tell  me,"  she  urged,  "doesn't  'lo'e' 
mean  love?" 

Allan  Gary  did  not  answer.  Elsie  laughed 
richly. 

"I  know  it  does,"  she  informed  him,  and  added 
meditatively:  "You  never  told  me  you  loved  me 
before." 

"May  God  damn  my  soul  to  hell  for  telling  it 
ye  now,"  swore  Allan  under  his  breath. 

"Oh-h,  why?"  asked  Elsie. 

The  Scot  started,  horror-stricken. 

"Ye  didna  hear?"  he  besought  her — "God  for- 
gie  me  for  blasphemin'  i'  yer  ears;  na,  na,  I 
dinna  lo'e  ye,  I  dinna  lo'e  ye." 

"That  is  not  true,  fairy  prince,"  retorted  Elsie, 


56  A   SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

bluntly.  "When  you  talk  to  me  your  voice 
sounds  as  Justine  made  hers  when  she  read  what 
Romeo  said  to  Juliet,  and  you  say  the  same  things, 
fairy  prince,  only  far  nicer.  And  I  know  you 
love  me,  because  I  love  you." 

Allan  Gary  sobbed  tearlessly. 

"Na,  na,"  he  pleaded,  "dinna  tell  me  that — 
dinna  tell  me  that;  I  hae  wranged  ye  eneuch  with- 
oot  that.  Say  ye  dinna  mean  it.'' 

Elsie  cooed ;  a  bird-like  murmur  of  delicious 

dissent. 

"  'Oh,  gentle  Romeo,'  " 

she  quoted,  humorously, 

" '.  .  .  If  thou  think'st  I  am  too  quickly  won, 
I'll  frown  and  be  perverse  and  say  thee  nay — 
So  thou  wilt  woo,  but  else,  not  for  the  world.'  " 

"For  God's  sake,  dinna  talk  like  that,"  begged 
the  Scot,  "I  maun  say  good-bye  t'ye  for  ever — 
oh,  that  I  had  never  spoken  to  ye  at  a',  never  seen 
yer  bonnie  face,  never  heard  yer  lintie's  voice, 
never  lookit  on  the  winsome  wee  thing  that  God 
has  pit  ayont  the  reach  of  me — ayont  the  reach  o' 
ony  man." 

"Fairy  prince,"  cried  Elsie,  fearfully,  leaning 
over  the  sill  and  calling  sibilantly  into  the  night ; 
"what  do  you  mean,  fairy  prince  ?  Shall  I  never 
have  any  one  to  love  me?  will  no  one  ever  kiss 
me?  can  I  never  have  somebody  of  my  own — my 
very  own — as  Juliet  and  Portia  and  Cleopatra 
had?" 


A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE     57 

Her  chestnut  hair  fell  out  over  her  shoulders, 
and  the  scent  of  it  came  to  Allan  Gary's  nostrils. 

"Oh.  please  don't  say  that,  fairy  prince."  she 
wailed ;  "I  do  want  somebody.  I  was  born  to  be 
pitied  and  made  much  of.  My  heart  aches  al- 
ways because  I  am  lonely.  Don't  say  it  must  go 
on  aching.  Will  no  one  ever  love  me,  because  I 
am  blind?  Oh,  fairy  prince,  say  you  love  me." 

Allan  Gary  lifted  up  his  face. 

"The  Lord  hae  mercy  on  baith  o'  us,"  he  said, 
brokenly,  "for  I  maun  aye  lo'e  ye." 

Elsie  drew  in  her  breath — a  sob  of  shuddering, 
uncontrollable  happiness. 

"Kiss  me,  fairy  prince,"  she  cried,  "kiss  me!" 

And  Allan  Gary  straightened  himself  from  his 
precarious  foothold  and  kissed  her  upon  the 
lips.  .  .  . 

Paul  Gotch  withdrew  into  the  shadow  of  the 
poplars.  An  uncertain  wind  stirred  them  with 
the  sound  of  a  sigh.  He  looked  up  at  the  deli- 
cate dusk  of  the  June  night. 

"Great  God,"  he  murmured,  "Thou  that  doest 
all  things  well — what  a  tragi-comedy  is  this!" 

He  stood  awhile  among  the  clustered  saplings, 
then  heard  the  sound  of  the  dwarf's  descent  and 
followed  him  quickly. 

Progressing  by  short,  uncouth  strides,  Allan 
Gary  cleared  the  plantation,  traversed  the  open 
churchyard,  climbed  its  low  wall  of  sandstone 
rubble,  crossed  the  cinder-path  that  led  to  the 
white  cottage,  and  descended  a  muddy  slope  into 


58  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

the  bottom  of  the  clavfield.  A  master  of  it. 
mutable  geography,  he  threaded  the  maze  of  its- 
pools  and  hillocks  at  a  rapid  rate ;  Paul  Gotch 
had  much  ado  to  keep  him  under  observation. 

Soon  the  dwarf  came  upon  the  inclined  viaduct 
that  ran  up  to  the  second  floor  of  the  shadowy 
engine-house;  he  breasted  it  sturdily,  Paul  close 
at  his  heels.  The  sound  of  the  stoker's  shovel 
floated  to  the  ears  of  both  from  the  well  of  the 
drying-shed,  and  each  trod  with  a  sudden  ex- 
travagant caution.  Half-way  up  the  rough  de- 
clivity the  Scot  stepped  off,  gained  the  door  of  a 
small  office,  unlocked  it,  and  entered.  His  pur- 
suer took  up  a  strategic  position,  and  waited.  A 
moment  later  Allan  Gary  reappeared,  carrying 
something  under  his  arm.  The  watcher's  heart 
leaped  as  he  divined,  from  a  random  outline,  its 
ominous  nature.  The  dwarf  paused  to  secure  a 
rasping  padlock ;  that  done,  he  addressed  himself 
toward  the  giant  kilns,  whose  ghostly  vapors 
rolled  fitfully  over  the  clay,  going  northward  with 
the  wind.  Paul  Gotch  resumed  his  cautious  pur- 
suit of  his  henchman. 

Beside  the  tallest  of  the  smoldering  piles  Allan 
Gary  halted,  and  choosing  a  spot  in  its  sloping 
face  where  the  imprisoned  fire  had  eaten  its  way 
between  the  superincumbent  strata  of  bricks,  he 
bent  to  the  lurid  glow.  Paul  crept  up  behind 
him  and  shuddered  to  perceive  his  occupation. 
He  was  loading  a  shotgun.  The  capricious  halo 
that  waxed  and  waned  about  him  gleamed  inter- 


A  LETTER  AND  A  SERENADE      59 

mittently  on  the  brown  barrels,  and  \varmed  the 
brass  setting  of  the  cartridge  into  bronze. 

The  snap  of  the  closing  breech  smote  awaken- 
ingly  upon  Paul's  ear,  and  he  started  forward  to 
seize  the  weapon,  but  Allan  Gary  laid  it  down  un- 
cocked, and  burst  out  fiercely. 

"I  winna  do't !  I  winna  clo't !"  he  cried.  "She 
said,  'Say  ye  lo'e  me,  fairy  prince/  an'  I  said,  'I 
maun  aye  lo'e  ye,  lassie.'  An'  gin  I  gae  to  see 
her  nae  mair;  gin  I  sing  to  her  nae  mair;  gin  I 
come  nae  mair  to  len'  her  ma  een  that  she  may  see 
ilka  flooer  and  tree,  ilka  bird  and  beast,  as  nane 
but  me  can  show  them  to  her — gin  I  put  death 
and  hell  atween  us,  will  she  no'  ca'  to  me  i'  her 
leddy  voice,  'Fairy  prince!  fairy  prince!'  I 
canna  do't — her  voice  wad  come  to  me  under  the 
mools,  and  I  couldna  rest  i'  ma  grave.  I  canna 
live  withoot  her,  and  God  hae  mercy  upo'  me, 
I  canna  dee  withoot  her,  either." 

The  distressful  monologue  lost  itself  in  a  spasm 
of  tears.  Paul  Gotch  moved  slowly  into  the 
equivocal  radiance  that  shone  about  the  vague 
extremity  of  the  kiln.  Allan  Gary  looked  up, 
startled ;  his  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  the  disturber. 

"Ye're  oot  late,  laddie,"  he  said,  trying  to 
speak  unconcernedly. 

Paul  touched  the  shotgun  significantly  with  his 
foot.  "Allan,  Allan,"  he  returned,  sorrowfully; 
"what  can  I  say  to  you,  my  poor  friend  ?" 

The  Scot  lifted  his  face  to  the  sky,  flooded  with 
the  pallor  of  the  risen  moon.  His  mouth  quiv- 


Go  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

ered  and  grew  hard ;  then  he  answered  somberly — 

"Sae  naething  to  me  at  a',  lest  I  curse  ye  as 
Job  cursed  them  that  comforted  him  wi'  words." 

Allan  Gary  turned  and  strode  off  hastily,  mak- 
ing for  the  eastern  boundary  of  the  estate — where 
the  tower  of  St.  Faith's  rose  dimly  against  the 
indigo  horizon.  Paul  took  up  the  discarded 
weapon  and  set  out  across  the  clayfield  in  the 
direction  of  the  Gotch  dwelling.  As  the  gloom 
closed  about  him,  a  tall  figure  stalked  from  the 
shadows  that  slept  to  windward  of  the  burning 
mass,  and  peered  along  the  ragged  ledge  between 
it  and  the  brink  of  the  precipitous  "cutting."  Be- 
neath lay  a  chance  pool,  swollen  by  the  recent 
rains — the  transverse  lines  of  light,  thrown  from 
the  side  of  the  kiln,  made  a  shining  grille  upon 
the  surface  of  the  black  water.  The  new-comer 
had  no  eyes  for  the  pool  or  the  path,  he  was  gaz- 
ing eagerly  into  the  darkness  ahead. 

"It  is  the  boy,  sure  enough,"  he  muttered;  "I 
thought  I  hadn't  missed  him.  Which  way  did 
he  go  ?  Damn  the  place,  it's  as  dark  as  a  wolf's 
mouth." 

He  plunged  into  the  night,  cursing  as  he  went, 
and  vanished  suddenly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    PLAY    OF    TRAGEDY 

"WHERE  shall  we  lay  him  down?"  asked  the 
dwarf  softly. 

Paul  hesitated  on  the  threshold  of  the  little 
lobby,  but  answered  with  decision. 

"Here,"  he  said,  and  opened  the  door  of  the 
room  where  he  had  held  that  strange  inquiry  into 
his  father's  marital  misconduct. 

Allan  Gary  whispered  to  the  group  behind 
them — three  tall  laborers  in  the  knee-girt  cordu- 
roys and  cotton  shirts  of  their  class.  Something 
grim  and  stark  swung  between  them,  upborne  on 
a  stout  plank.  Two  pairs  of  brown  palms  gripped 
one  rough  extremity,  guarding  an  iron-gray  head. 
A  few  drops  of  soiled  water  splashed  upon  the 
oilcloth  of  the  passage. 

The  three  carried  their  burden  into  the  bright 
chamber.  Paul  drew  out  the  couch  and  helped 
to  lift  the  rigid  figure  upon  it.  For  a  moment 
the  dead  man's  shoulders  rested  heavily  in  his 
son's  arms;  a  pale  shaft  from  the  window  glit- 
tered on  a  gold  pin  in  the  drenched  scarf. 

Their  embarrassed  co-operation  ended,  the 
61 


62  A    SON    OF   AUSTERITY 

brickmakers  shuffled  reverently  out  of  the  apart- 
ment ;  Allan  Gary  remained.  Paul  turned  to  him, 
catching  at  a  question. 

"Do  you  know  who  this  was,  Allan?"  he  said 
harshly;  "this  harmless  clay  that  lies  so  still  in 
the  sunshine." 

"Yin  o'  yer  ane  fowk,  is't  no'?''  replied  the 
Scot,  wondering;  "he's  a  rare  look  o'  yersel',  puir 
body.  Yer  mither'll  be  sair  put  aboot;  nae  doot 
he  lost  his  way  i'  the  dark,  and  the  pits  are  just 
brimmin'  after  the  rains." 

Paul  Gotch  regarded  the  speaker  curiously. 
"It  was  my  father,  Allan,"  he  said;  "my  father! 
He  came  back  to  us  tw:o  days  ago,  and  we  sent 
him  away,  after  fair  trial  and  verdict.  And  now, 
Allan,  Tragedy  has  played  her  ace,  and  where 
are  our  court  cards  of  virtue  and  justice?" 

The  dwarf  bent  his  head.  "May  God  hae 
mercy  upon  him,"  he  murmured. 

"Why  not?"  said  Paul,  the  thought  springing 
to  his  lips;  "we  had  none." 

Allan  Gary  sighed,  and  followed  his  subordin- 
ates without  offering  to  continue  the  argument. 

"My  God !"  quoted  Memory  in  the  ear  of  Paul 
Gotch,  "but  I  should  like  you  to  have  shaken 
hands  with  me." 

He  stood  looking  at  the  stalwart  form  so  mas- 
terful in  its  experienced  middle-age.  A  canary, 
hung  in  a  cage  close  by,  stirred  cheerfully  and 
broke  into  a  flood  of  melodious  assertion.  The 
watcher  roused,  and  lowered  the  blinds.  The 


THE  PLAY  OF  TRAGEDY  63 

little  creature  lapsed  into  silence  with  a  regretful 
chirp,  and  Paul  left  the  shadowy  chamber,  aban- 
doning it  to  die  discomfited  musician  and  the 
heedless  dead. 

When  he  returned,  it  was  to  cover  the  immo- 
bile face  with  a  soft  white  square.  The  deter- 
mined profile  still  showed  vaguely,  acquiring  a 
novel  dignity  in  repose. 

"My  God !"  sounded  again  in  the  recesses  of 
Paul's  mind,  "but  I  should  like  you  to  have 
shaken  hands  with  me."  The  repetition  was 
more  thrilling  in  the  funereal  gloom  than  it  had 
been  in  the  gathering  sunshine :  the  son  of  Selina 
Gotch  yielded  to  an  uncontrollable  impulse,  and 
stooping,  he  took  the  icy  fingers  in  his  own. 

Then  he  went  to  his  mother's  room. 

Pausing  upon  an  upper  landing,  he  tapped 
lightly  at  a  thin  panel.  Receiving  no  answer,  he 
tapped  again. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  tremulous  voice,  heavy  with 
sleep.  Paul  entered  quietly,  and  stepped  to  the 
bedside.  Selina  Gotch  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
son's  and  smiled  wanly. 

"You're  up  early,"  she  told  him;  "have  you 
had  your  breakfast?" 

"Not  yet."  said  her  son,  evasively;  but  the 
tender  vigilance  of  the  inquiry  moved  him.  He 
bent  and  kissed  her.  Selina  Gotch's  emotions 
were  very  quick  and  strong;  the  gray  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  the  frail  lips  responded  quiver- 
ingly  to  the  caress.  The  touch  of  the  dead  man's 


64  A    SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

fingers  seemed  to  fade  away  before  the  access  of 
feeling  that  pulsed  warmly  in  her  son's  veins. 

"Something  has  happened,"  lie  began,  with 
caution;  "an  accident  in  the  clayfield — some  one, 
unfortunately,  has  been  drowned." 

His  mother's  expression  contracted  to  one  of 
pity. 

"Not  another  child?"   she  said,   nervously. 

"No,"  answered  Paul;  "a  man;  some  one  we 
know ;  slightly,  that  is.  You  knew  him  better  at 
one  time." 

He  stroked  her  hand — a  spare,  smooth  hand, 
at  once  fine,  and  powerful. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  he  asked;  "it  is  my — my 
father." 

Mrs.  Gotch  gazed  at  him  incredulously. 

"He  must  have  been  in  the  neighborhood," 
pursued  Paul,  as  indifferently  as  was  possible, 
"and  not  being  familiar  with  the  pits,  stumbled 
into  one.  Gary  found  him  this  morning,  quite 
dead." 

The  tears  had  ebbed  from  Mrs.  Gotch's  eyes, 
her  mouth  hardened.  Her  son  comprehended. 

"He  may  have  been  trying  to  see  me,"  said 
Paul;  "but  if  so,  he  did  not  succeed.  On  the 
contrary,  I  wrote  him  a  brief  note  yesterday — 
in  answer  to  one  I  received  from  him " 

Selina  Gotch  took  a  deep  breath  of  painful  an- 
ger. 

"Letting  him  understand  that  I  had  become 
aware  of  certain  new  facts,  and  that  it  was  even 


THE  PLAY  OF  TRAGEDY  65 

more  than  ever  impossible  for  us  to  become 
— acquainted.  That  letter,"  went  on  Paul,  mus- 
ingly, "he  can  not  have  received,  and  now  he  will 
never  receive  it." 

Mrs.  Gotch  glanced  jealously  at  her  son.  She 
herself  had  no  words  to  express  the  subtle  anxiety 
which  troubled  her. 

"I  am  sorry  he  should  have  met  with  such  a 
death."  said  Paul,  fathoming  his  mother's 
thought ;  "I  believe  that  is  all.  Why  should  you 
doubt  me  ?  You  chose  him  to  be  my  father ;  you 
loved  him  once,  and  I  am  because  of  it.  He 
sinned  against  you,  and  I  denied  him  part  or  lot 
in  me.  What  more  would  you  have?  One  can 
not  hate  by  merely  willing  it." 

The  racked  maternal  bosom  swelled  in  a  spasm 
of  bitter  resentment,  and  Selina  Gotch  wept. 

"I  wish,"  she  sobbed,  "we  had  never  heard  of 
him  again." 

"It  might  have  been  for  the  best,"  said  Paul; 

"I  think  his  coming  back  has "  He  checked 

himself  abruptly. 

"Has  what?"  persisted  Mrs.  Gotch. 

"Has  taught  me  that  I  have  a  heart,"  con- 
cluded her  son ;  "at  least  I  never  knew  it  to  ache 
before.  And  now  it  aches  strangely — for  you 
and  for  him ;  yes,  and  for  myself,  too." 

An  impulse  of  candor  seized  upon  him,  over- 
whelming the  stiff  reserve  which  he  inherited 
from  his  mother. 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy  always,"  he 


66  A   SON   OP   AUSTERITY 

told  her  impetuously;  "I  feel  as  if  I  had  just 
awakened  from  a  long  and  sheltered  dream ;  as 
if  my  fort  of  philosophy  had  heen  carried  by  as- 
sault, and  Life  and  Death,  with  all  their  ban-dogs 
of  perplexity,  were  howling  round  the  citadel. 
Poor  pale  Amazon,  you  kept  the  gates  gallantly, 
but  it  was  no  use,  you  see." 

He  shrank  into  silence,  startled  by  the  unusual 
frankness  of  his  outburst.  Selina  Gotch  stirred. 

"I  had  better  get  up,"  she  said;  "there  will  be 
a  great  deal  to  do." 

Paul  rose. 

"I  will  attend  to  all  that  I  can  myself/'  he  an- 
swered, and  met  her  glance  doubtfully.  "We 
shall  not  quite  be  able  to  hide  our  skeleton  from 
the  Public  and  the  Law,"  he  added ;  "but  we  shall 
try,  shall  we  not  ?" 

Selina  Gotch  motioned  affirmatively;  the  con- 
cession was  to  her  son,  not  to  the  dead. 

"You — you  would  rather  not  see  him,"  fal- 
tered Paul. 

Mrs.  Gotch  knitted  her  brows.  "Why  should 
I?"  she  inquired. 

Her  son  found  no  reply  sufficiently  satisfactory 
to  an  impromptu  judgment  and  so  departed. 

In  the  hall  he  reached  for  his  hat,  went  out 
into  the  vast  clayfield  and  strolled  towards  St. 
Faith's.  As  he  skirted  a  stretch  of  hitherto  un- 
touched grass-land,  whose  miscellaneous  slopes 
and  flattened  hillocks — strewn  with  the  orange 
stars  of  the  dandelion,  native  to  the  raw  earths 


THE  PLAY  OF  TRAGEDY  67 

of  the  locality — ran  down  to  the  largest  and  shal- 
lowest of  the  clay-pits,  he  saw  that  Elsie  Stuart. 
chaperoned  by  the  precise  figure  of  Justine  Du- 
pin,  sat  upon  a  strip  of  velvety  turf  that  looked 
across  the  brown  pool.  He  gained  the  spot  and 
spoke  to  them. 

"What  brings  you  here?"  he  asked  the  blind 
girl ;  "are  there  no  parks?" 

"Much  good  parks  are!"  snapped  Elsie;  "the 
trees  worry  me  with  their  fuss  and  chatter.  Here 
I  can  feel  nothing  but  sun  and  emptiness,  and  my 
thoughts  can  go  on  forever  without  bumping 
against  anything." 

Suddenly  interested,  Paul  seated  himself  on 
a  bank  beside  her. 

"May  I  learn  what  you  were  thinking  about?" 
he  said. 

"You  may,"  replied  Elsie.  "I  was  lying  on 
Aladdin's  carpet,  curled  up  on  a  bed  of  flowers, 
and  floating  to  the  other  heaven,  the  heaven  where 
the  angels  all  have  sweethearts." 

"Why  the  other  heaven?"  demanded  Paul. 

"Well,  you  know,"  explained  the  blind  girl, 
"there  are  two  heavens — the  traditional  one  and 
the  other  one.  In  the  traditional  one  it  is  always 
Sunday,  and  they  only  sing  hymns;  in  the  other 
they  never  have  any  Sundays,  and  they  sing  songs 
that  make  your  heart  fly  round  in  your  chest 
like  a  bird  in  a  cage.  Which  heaven  are  you  go- 
ing to,  Mr.  Gotch  ?" 

"I  haven't  decided,"  said  Paul,  beguiled,  de- 


68  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

spite  his  melancholy;  "in  any  case  I  have  no 
sweetheart,  Elsie.  Do  they  provide  them  in  the 
other  heaven?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  responded  Elsie,  "but  the 
best  sort  are  the  ones  you  find  here  and  take  with 
you." 

Paul  studied  sorrowfully  the  glowing  face  of 
the  speaker,  he  knew  what  had  lent  that  warmth 
to  the  soft  cheek,  that  light  to  the  wide  violet 
orbs,  that  velvet  laughter  to  the  childish  tones. 
He  broke  off  the  conversation. 

"Is  your  father  at  home,  Elsie?"  he  asked. 

"Poor  Dearie  has  had  to  go  to  a  diocesan  con- 
ference," said  the  blind  girl,  mischievously.  "I 
went  once,  and  they  put  me  up  in  a  gallery  sort 
of  place,  while  all  the  clergy  talked  down  below. 
Such  a  lot  of  funny  little  voices,  like  bees  on  the 
sandhills  in  the  sun." 

Paul  turned  back.  "Good-bye,  Elsie,"  he 
called,  "good-morning,  Miss  Dupin;  I  will  see 
Mr.  Stuart  again." 

He  reached  the  white  cottage  after  a  detour 
to  the  mill,  where  he  failed  to  find  Allen  Gary. 
Re-entering  the  narrow  passage  he  noticed  that 
the  door  of  his  work-room  was  open,  and  glanced 
in.  Selina  Gotch  sat  by  the  body  of  her  hus- 
band, her  arms  thrown  upon  the  table,  her  head 
hidden  between  them,  her  shoulders  heaving. 

Paul  crept  away,  and  stole  into  the  sunlit 
meadow,  possessed  by  an  infinite  astonishment. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE    LAST    JOURNEY 

THERE  is  a  sound,  not  born  of  any  living  thing, 
a  sound,  obscure  yet  awfully  distinct,  that  seems 
like  the  last  querulous  protest  of  the  dead  against 
oblivion.  It  is  the  whine  of  the  long  screws  in 
the  closing  coffin. 

This  sound  fell  upon  the  ears  of  Paul  Gotch : 
he  rose  and  buttoned  his  frock-coat.  Mrs.  Gotch 
went  out  of  the  dining-room,  to  return  with  a 
loose  dark  ulster. 

"Put  this  on,"  she  said,  solicitously. 

Her  son  hesitated.  "It — it  isn't  black,"  he  an- 
swered. 

Mrs.  Gotch  proffered  the  garment,  mutely 
insistent;  Paul  surrendered.  His  mother  settled 
the  collar — her  fingers  trembling.  Paul  drew 
the  gray  head  to  him  and  kissed  it;  Mrs.  Gotch 
looked  up  timidly. 

"Don't  take  off  your  hat,"  she  murmured;  "it 
has  been  raining,  and  the  wind  is  quite  cold  this 
morning." 

Cautious  fingers  rapped  interruptingly  upon  a 
panel  of  the  door,  and  a  face  appeared,  plump, 
69 


70  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

vinous,  ludicrously  mournful.  The  bilious  eyes 
beckoned  privily  to  Paul ;  he  complied  with  the 
gesture. 

"Shall  we,"  desired  his  ghoulish  cicerone — 
"shall  we  lift  the  body  now,  sir?" 

The  young  man  assented  vaguely  and  went 
back  to  his  mother.  Some  subtle  rapport  of  an- 
tagonism troubled  both,  yet  shunned  the  defini- 
tion of  speech.  A  confused  soft  babel  of  foot- 
steps penetrated  from  the  lobby  without,  men 
moving  with  difficult  breathing  under  a  grim  bur- 
den. The  glances  of  the  listeners  met;  Paul 
sighed  and  left  his  mother  alone.  Mrs.  Gotch 
stole  to  one  of  the  small  panes  and  peered 
through. 

The  brickfield  was  veiled  in  a  thin  mist,  tat- 
tered capriciously  by  a  raw  north  wind.  Occa- 
sionally the  fleecy  screen  faded  into  uncertain 
showers.  The  bearers  of  the  coffin  moved  down 
the  narrow  walk,  threaded  the  gate  and  advanced 
swayingly  over  the  cinder-path  toward  the  east- 
ern roadway.  Paul  followed  them,  a  tall,  de- 
spondent figure. 

Some  titanic  emotion  clutched  at  the  heart  of 
Selina  Gotch;  she  could  not  weep,  nor  could  her 
agonized  bosom  dilate  upon  its  delirious  protest 
of  jealousy;  she  felt  the  currents  of  being  pause 
in  her  convulsed  frame,  her  brain  numbed ;  for 
a  second  the  darkness  of  the  Unendurable  blot- 
ted her  out.  Then  she  crept  back  to  conscious 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  71 

existence,  a  frail,  stricken  creature  with  the  cup 
of  bitterness  empty  in  her  hand. 

Patiently  the  somber  carriers  marched  with 
their  load.  Not  a  flower  lay  upon  the  yellow 
casket,  no  pall  covered  it  from  the  condensing 
clouds  that  rolled  about  it.  Shoulder-high  and 
feet  foremost  Christopher  Gotch  traveled  to  his 
grave,  as  virile  and  dispassionate  as  in  life.  And 
after  him  came  his  unwilling  captive;  the  spoil 
of  a  victory  plucked  out  of  the  very  jaws  of  de- 
feat. 

At  the  border  of  the  clayfield  were  a  hearse 
and  a  single  carriage.  A  little  crowd  marked, 
with  its  opposing  groups  of  spectators,  the  way 
to  the  two  pompous  equipages.  The  coffin  slid 
shriekingly  between  the  planes  of  frosted  glass 
and  shining  enamel;  Paul  mounted  into  the 
lumbering  ark  behind,  there  was  a  clatter  of 
hoofs,  and  the  wheels,  clearing  the  curb,  settled 
into  those  slow  revolutions  which,  all  too  quickly, 
devour  the  last  journey. 

The  Law  had  set  its  seal  upon  the  remains  of 
Christopher  Gotch,  apologetic  officials  had  come 
and  gone  in  its  formal  service,  twelve  reluctant 
strangers  had  seen  a  bloodless  face  and  rigid 
limbs  and  rendered  judgment  thereon;  Christo- 
pher Gotch  might  claim — unlike  Ophelia — his 
"bringing  home  of  bell  and  burial."  His  pulses 
had  been  stilled  by  chance,  not  choice ;  be  his  rec- 
ord what  it  might,  the  church  would  not  turn  her 
countenance  from  him. 


72  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

Out  of  the  finite  Unknown  came  Christopher 
Gotch  to  ask  for  love  and  pardon ;  into  the  in- 
finite Unknown  he  had  departed,  haply  on  the 
same  quest.  Paul  plumbed  the  shallows  of  his 
own  faith  as  he  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  gloomy  car- 
riage. Once  he  smiled  wanly;  the  Future  focus- 
ing itself  automatically  into  the  Paradise  of  con- 
vention, an  irreverent  realism  had  suggested  his 
mother's  uncompromising  attitude  even  towards 
a  redeemed  Christopher.  He  shuddered  to 
fathom  the  inherent  ferocity  of  the  fend. 

The  hearse  swerved  into  sight  beyond  the  win- 
dow at  his  elbow  as  it  rounded  a  corner.  Ahead 
lay  the  broad  central  avenue  of  a  handsome  mod- 
ern city  of  the  dead ;  its  well-grown  trees  and 
thick  plantations  cowering  wetly  in  the  dank  at- 
mosphere. The  vehicles  stopped  at  one  of  the 
neat  ceremonial  churches  scattered  over  it.  A 
mute  opened  the  carriage-door  and  the  solitary 
mourner  descended.  The  shouldered  coffin 
passed  into  the  weather-beaten  porch  and  came 
to  rest  upon  the  trestles  at  the  entrance  of  the 
aisle.  Paul  noticed  that  the  rain-drops  were 
standing  on  the  polished  elm  in  beads  like  tears. 

He  gained  one  of  the  comfortless  pews  and 
took  a  seat.  The  church  was  empty,  and,  in  spite 
of  the  June  day,  bitterly  chill  and  damp.  Paul 
surveyed  the  bare  structure,  its  severely  plain 
chancel,  its  greenish  diamonds  of  leaded  glass, 
its  grained  reading-desk,  its  harsh  concrete  pave- 
ment and  altar-steps.  He  turned  and  looked  at 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  73 

the  gaunt,  flowerless  casket  upon  the  trestles,  then 
at  the  frowning  walls  about  him.  A  cynical 
thought  put  itself  into  a  slashing  epigram  \viih  a 
verse-like  swing  in  it — '"Thou  hast  brought  tin- 
dead  to  a  God  as  dead."  The  sentence  pleased 
him,  it  was  so  brutally  apt ;  he  pondered  possible 
rhymes. 

A  slight  bustle  at  the  west  end  of  the  church 
roused  him  from  his  absorption.  Another  coffin 
was  being  set  down  side  by  side  with  that  of 
Christopher  Gotch.  Paul's  irritable  humor  kin- 
dled into  resentment ;  he  wished  he  had  arranged 
for  a  private  service  and  asked  Patrick  Stuart  to 
officiate.  There  would  have  been  a  wealth  of  ar- 
tistic comfort  in  his  beautiful  manners  and  gentle, 
bearded  mouth.  Who  were  the  new-comers? — 
doubtless  some  homespun  folk  with  noisy  tears 
and  unkempt  lamentation. 

While  he  fumed,  cold  and  petulent,  the  mourn- 
ers came  up  the  aisle,  a  knot  of  women,  chiefly  of 
that  gross,  gadding  sort  which  joys  and  sorrows 
with  its  neighbor — not  seldom  maugre  its  neigh- 
bor's permission.  Amid  this  escort  there  moved 
a  young  girl,  slender,  erect,  pathetically  hung 
with  crape,  frozen  by  tragedy  into  a  bewildered 
calm.  Her  flimsy  sables  were  crisp  and  new; 
those  of  the  attendant  matrons  limp  and  rusty, 
the  charitable  resurrections  of  more  personal 
woe. 

Paul's  anger  ebbed  from  him ;  the  sullen  church 
had  gained  an  instant  sanctity  from  that  white 


74  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

maiden  visage  with  the  drooped  lids.  He  gazed 
at  it  curiously — it  had  an  air  of  piteous  steadfast- 
ness ;  a  repressed  sob  hung  at  a  delicate  angle  of 
the  mouth.  The  women  settled  themselves  on 
either  hand  with  reciprocally  sympathetic  signals. 

The  chaplain  hurried  into  position  at  the  read- 
ing-desk, a  short,  prosaic  figure  in  a  flapping 
surplice.  His  voice  was  weak  and  reedy,  and  its 
echoes  danced  fantastically  among  the  brown 
rafters — piping  the  supernal  hypotheses  of  that 
majestic  consecration  which  has  challenged  for 
so  many  centuries  an  unanswering  mystery. 

Paul  Gotch's  sceptical  mind  wavered  under  the 
lyrical,  melancholy  English  of  the  psalms,  and 
warmed  to  the  silver  trumpet  of  the  apostolic 
harangue.  The  girl,  among  her  uncouth  escort, 
was  weeping  silently,  little  flushes  of  carmine 
throbbed  in  her  cheeks  and  tinged  her  ears  and 
eyelids.  Paul  watched  her,  wondering  who  of 
all  her  kin  lay  there  beside  his  father  on  the 
trestles — two  lifelong  strangers,  cheek  by  jowl 
in  death. 

The  lesson  over,  the  chaplain  came  down  the 
church;  the  women  abandoned  their  pew  and 
rustled  in  his  wake.  Paul  stayed  where  he  was, 
deeming  la  place  aux  dames  an  applicable  canon. 
To  his  surprise  the  coffin  that  was  raised  to  the 
shoulders  of  its  bearers  was  that  of  his  father. 
He  went  hastily  along  the  aisle.  The  weighted 
mutes  strode  out  into  the  porch,  and  the  two 
chief  mourners  found  themselves  unexpectedly 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  75 

face  to  face.  For  a  moment  they  stood  so,  fasci- 
nated by  an  impulse  of  curiosity,  then  Paul  bowed 
deeply  and  passed  on.  His  eye  fell  upon  the  re- 
maining coffin.  It  bore  a  cross  of  lilies  and  nar- 
cissus ;  nevertheless,  he  could  read  the  name  on 
the  half-hidden  plate — "Frances  Latimer" -,  the 
succeeding  dates  were  forty  years  apart. 

"Her  mother,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  went 
on  into  the  open.  A  doubtful  rain  was  descend- 
ing; the  chaplain  had  donned  a  silk  hat,  his  scanty 
surplice  shook  in  the  intermittent  breezes  about 
his  clumsy  boots  and  trouser-legs. 

The  final  resting-place  of  Christopher  Gotch 
was  near  a  portion  of  the  great  cemetery  still 
park-like  and  rural.  Wide  stretches  of  rough 
natural  green-sward,  shadowed  by  ancient  oaks, 
skirted  here  the  dense  assemblage  of  gleaming 
monuments. 

Paul  watched  perplexedly  as  the  service  ended. 
He  could  not  touch  the  moist  earth  when  they 
came  to  the  hideous  "ashes  to  ashes";  the  chap- 
lain dropped  a  convenient  clod,  then  glanced  at 
him  pityingly.  The  hollow  rattle  wakened  Paul's 
comatose  fancy,  and  set  it  on  the  brink  of  illimit- 
able horrors.  By  the  time  he  had  it  mastered 
again,  the  chaplain  had  concluded  the  collect,  re- 
peated the  benediction,  and  was  off  to  his  sec- 
ond service. 

The  dead  man's  son  lost  himself  in  a  troubled 
reverie.  Too  honest  for  equivoque,  too  cynical 
for  credulity,  too  imaginative  for  negation,  he 


76  A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

was  contemplating,  for  the  first  time  with  a  defi- 
nite stake  in  the  phenomenon,  the  cessation  of 
physical  existence  The  catastrophe  of  which  he 
was  himself  the  expression  and  the  memento — 
the  catastrophe  of  an  embittered  life — seemed 
hysterical  and  overwrought  beside  the  crushing 
terror  of  this  other;  the  catastrophe  of  death. 
He  asked  himself  questions  which  outran  his 
vocabulary  and  left  him  gasping  in  a  sea  of  pure 
thought. 

The  raucous  tones  of  the  chaplain's  voice  re- 
vived his  interest  in  the  material  world.  A  stride 
or  so  away  were  the  feminine  mourners.  The 
laborers  beside  him  ceased  to  ply  their  spades. 
The  matrons  wept  heartily  out  of  mere  barbarous 
fellowship;  their  charge  had  no  tears  now.  A 
dizzying  tension  of  will  was  evidently  all  that 
stood  between  her  and  an  insanity  of  sorrow ;  her 
eyes  were  closed,  her  lips  compressed,  her  nos- 
trils dilated.  Once  or  twice,  as  the  women  whis- 
pered to  her,  she  took  her  breath  in  a  sick  sob,  or 
moved  her  head,  as  a  child  that  refuses  comfort. 
It  was  the  Sentient  in  the  grasp  of  the  Inflexible. 

The  guard  of  matrons  closed  vigilantly  about 
her,  but  there  was  no  need  of  the  precaution ;  the 
final  words  of  the  service  spoken,  she  turned  and 
went  away  with  her  attendants,  walking  unstead- 
ily, like  one  in  a  dream.  The  sextons  began  to 
fill  in  somewhat  of  the  newly-tenanted  graves. 

Paul  sought  out  and  dismissed  the  waiting  car- 
riage, to  return  home  on  foot.  A  meal  was  ready 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  77 

for  him  in  the  parlor  of  the  cottage  on  the  clay- 
field — a  pleasant,  cheerful  meal  with  a  bright  fire 
accompanying  it  to  conjure  the  vapors  of  the 
squalid  afternoon.  He  shut  the  door  behind  him 
as  he  entered,  and  shivered  strongly,  finding 
Death's  shadowy  Beyond  the  more  awful  in  pres- 
ence of  Life's  fond,  familiar  Here. 

His  mother's  little  maid  waited  on  him  nerv- 
ously ;  it  was  her  privilege  but  seldom. 

"Mrs.  Gotch  had  a  bad  headache,  sir,"  she  told 
him,  bringing  his  plate  with  a  certain  coquettish 
grace — she  had  put  on  a  clean  print  gown,  also 
there  was  a  red  ribbon  at  her  throat — "and  went 
to  lie  down  for  a  while.  But  when  I  peeped  in 
to  know  when  you  would  be  back,  sir,  she  had 
dropped  off  and  was  sleeping  beautifully.  So  I 
brought  up  your  dinner  myself." 

"That  was  very  considerate  of  you,  Margaret," 
answered  her  master,  glancing  at  her  with  reti- 
cent kindness.  Margaret  blushed  at  the  glance; 
poor  soul,  she  had  no  need;  her  tiny  image  in 
those  dusky  pupils  sparkled  on  the  surface  only. 
They  were  contrasting  cruelly  her  simple  features 
and  transient  bloom  of  youth  with  the  insepara- 
ble beauty  and  Olympian  grief  of  that  white  face 
on  which  they  had  lingered  so  wistfully  for  an 
hour. 

"Mr.  Gary  has  been  asking  for  you,  sir,"  inti- 
mated Margaret,  with  unnecessary  devotion, 
when  next  she  came  through ;  "he  said  he  would 


78  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

call  up  again.  Will  yon  have  your  coffee  now, 
sir?" 

"Thank  you,"  murmured  Paul  out  of  his  own 
thoughts,  and  Margaret  retreated,  indefinably  re- 
gretful at  the  approaching  termination  of  her 
ministry. 

P:iul  sipped  his  coffee  luxuriously;  Margaret 
had  dowered  it  richly  with  cream.  She  herself 
stayed  to  draw  the  coals  together  in  the  high 
grate,  peeping  reverently  meanwhile  at  the  young 
man's  lounging  figure.  At  length  she  stole 
quietly  from  the  room.  Beneath  that  pink  hoi- 
land  bodice  a  brave  if  uncultured  spirit  was  flut- 
tering a  soft  breast  with  futile  tenderness. 

"Mr.  Gary,  sir,"  she  returned  to  say.  Paul  re- 
linquished his  cup  and  got  up  from  the  table. 

"Don't  let  me  disturb  ye,"  protested  the  dwarf. 

"Not  at  all,"  responded  the  other;  "have  some 
coffee." 

"I  thank  ye,  no,"  said  Allan  Gary.  He  sat 
down  near  the  threshold  and  fumbled  with  his 
hat. 

"Ye'll  hae  had  a  sair  day  the  day,"  he  went  on, 
his  black  orbs  gleaming  with  an  eloquence  the 
monosyllables  belied. 

"Yes,"  assented  Paul,  dreamily;  "I  have  been 
to  the  jumping-off  place,  Allan,  and  my  eyes  have 
seen  no  farther  into  its  darkness  than  others  have 
done  before  me." 

"It's  a  fearsome  riddle,"  said  the  Scot.     He 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  79 

hesitated    a    moment,    then  continued  suddenly : 
"Ye'll  no'  guess  why  I'm  here?" 

"No,"  admitted  Paul. 

"I'm  on  a  selfish  errent,"  said  the  dwarf, 
fiercely;  "but  it  maun  oot.  I've  come  to  ask  ye 
to  set  me  free — I  canna  stay  \vi'  ye  any  langer." 

"My  dear  Allan!"  began  Paul  Gotch,  "you 
can't  mean  that." 

"Aye,  but  I  dae,"  said  the  Scot,  with  self-con- 
tempt ;  "it'll  tak  ye  aff  yer  buiks  and  spoil  a'  yer 
graund  works — it'll  fash  ye  and  yer  mither  tae 
deith,  but  I  dinna  care.  I'm  aff — aff  tae  see  life, 
aff  tae  tak  my  fill  o'  the  warld,  tae  find  a  short 
road  tae  the  Deil  somehow." 

Paul  Gotch  stared  at  the  speaker,  amazed- 
then  in  a  flash  comprehended  and  bent  his  head 
before  the  dwarf's  wild,  inverted  woe. 

"Ye've  been  gude  frien's  tae  me,"  pursued  Al- 
lan Gary ;  "ye  and  yer  mither.  I've  had  a  bonnie 
time  wi'  ye  and  yer  buiks,  Paul;  my  mind's  a 
span  taller.  An'  I  hae  been  true  man  tae  ye  an' 
dune  weel  by  the  mill.  But  I  maun  gang,  I  maun 
gang — ye'll  gie  me  leave  ?" 

"Yes,"  promised  Paul  sadly;  "is  there  no 
other  way?" 

"Nane,"  said  the  dwarf;  "ma  life's  a  revellt 
skein,  but  I  hae  had  ma  'oor.  Dinna  ye  greet 
for  me,  Paul;  ane  withoot  eyes  has  lookit  intae 
ma  saul  and  found  me  worthy  o'  her.  Ye  kent 
a'  the  ither  nicht,  didna  ye? — and  ye  didna  de- 
spise me ;  so  I'll  no'  lie  tae  ye.  But  I  maun  gang, 


8o  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

I'm  a  man  like  yerseF.  and  her  face  grups  me 
aboot  the  heirt.  I  mauna  be  where  she  is — she 
lo'es  me  too,  ye  ken." 

A  dry  sob  burst  from  his  lips;  Paul  wrung  his 
hand  dumbly. 

"I  will  arrange  everything/'  added  the  younger 
man,  after  a  hiatus  of  troublous  feeling;  "how 
soon  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"I'll  bide  till  ye're  in  the  way  o'  doin'  without 
me,"  said  Allan  Gary  hoarsely ;  "ye're  ower  gude, 
ower  gude.  But  if  ever  ye  lo'e  a  lassie  o'  yer 
ain,  ye'll  ken  a'  that's  i  ma  heirt  this  nicht.  Dinna 
trouble  tae  let  me  oot." 

He  drew  the  door  open  with  a  jerk  and  disap- 
peared hurriedly. 

Paul  passed  the  next  hour  brooding  over  the 
dwindling  fire.  Mrs.  Gotch  roused  him. 

"You  are  very  thoughtful,"  she  said,  with 
latent  jealousy. 

"I  was  thinking,"  answered  her  son,  "of  a  girl 
I  saw  to-day — she  was  burying  some  one  very 
dear  to  her,  her  mother,  I  imagine;  poor  child, 
she  seemed  overwhelmed  with  grief."  He  put 
an  arm  about  the  worn  figure  beside  him.  "Her 
mother !"  he  repeated ;  "after  all,  our  mothers  are 
more  to  us  than  any  one  else  can  ever  be." 

For  an  instant  Selina  Gotch's  heart  was  at 
peace.  "Not  to  a  man,"  she  objected  belatedly, 
though  without  intentional  point  in  the  remark; 
"you  know  the  old  rhyme — 


THE  LAST  JOURNEY  Si 

"  'My  son's  my  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife, 
But  my  daughter's  my  daughter  all  her  life.'  " 

"Would  you  mind?"  asked  Paul,  obliquely. 
"Let«us  wait  and  see."  suggested  Mrs.  Gotch, 
with  unconscious  prudence. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A    CONTROVERSY    AND    A    COMPACT 

"MR.  GOTCH  !"  said  the  voice  of  Elsie  Stuart, 
descending  to  Paul's  ear  as  he  stepped  into  the 
ample  hall-way  of  the  vicarage,  "will  you  please 
come  up-stairs?" 

Paul  obeyed,  in  part ;  he  went  to  the  middle  of 
the  long  flight.  There  he  halted  doubtfully. 

"Come  right  up,"  demanded  Elsie.  "I  knew 
it  was  you  by  your  step.  Justine  is  out — I — I 
want  you  to  see  Tommie ;  I  have  just  got  him." 

Having  no  courteous  alternative,  Paul  followed 
Elsie  into  her  own  domains.  "Tommie"  proved 
to  be  a  splendid  Angora  cat,  coiled  sleepily  in  a 
flannel-lined  basket,  a  silver  bell  dangling  at  his 
aristocratic  neck. 

"Isn't  he  soft  and  lazy?"  inquired  Elsie.  "But 
he's  got  a  wicked  face — you've  only  to  feel  it — 
so." 

She  drew  her  small  fingers  over  the  feline  head. 

"There,"  she  said,  "that  makes  me  think  of 
awful  things ;  things  with  queer  shivery  smiles — 
waiting  for  you  round  corners.  Ugh !" 

The  blind  girl  felt  for  the  tiny  jaws  and  pulled 
82 


A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  83 

them  asunder.  "Here  are  some  nice  teeth  for 
you,"  she  went  on,  "and  here" — she  spread  a 
dainty  paw  to  demonstrate  the  curved  talons — 
"here  are  some  pretty  claws.  Oh,  you  little 
beast" — she  apostrophized  the  drowsy  animal— 
"how  I  hate  you!" 

Elsie  faced  about  suddenly.  "Mr.  Gotch,"  she 
said,  "what  do  you  think  of  people  who  break 
promises?" 

"Men  or  women?"  queried  Paul,  with  gentle 
cynicism. 

"Why?"  demanded  the  blind  girl. 

"Well,"  returned  Paul,  quizzically,  "there's 
really  not  much  difference  in  theory,  but  the  prac- 
tical wisdom  of  several  centuries  has  decided  that 
a  man  must  keep  his  word,  a  woman — may." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Elsie,  "that's  a  poor  joke. 
Never  mind,  I  suppose  it's  true.  Now,  I'm  going 
to  ask  you  a  question,  Mr.  Gotch — a  very  impor- 
tant question.  Will  you  swear  to  answer  me 
truthfully?" 

"I  swear,"  responded  Paul,  sitting  down,  the 
better  to  consider  the  situation. 

"Then,"  said  Elsie,  "what  do  you  know  about 
gardening?" 

"Absolutely  nothing,"  confessed  the  witness. 

"Do  you  know  anybody  who  does  ?"  proceeded 
the  examining  counsel. 

Paul  bit  his  lip.  "No-no,"  he  said,  warily; 
he  recollected  that  Allan  Gary  was  a  master  of 
the  art  in  question.  Elsie,  seated  on  the  table 


84  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

edge,  was  pointing  her  toes  with  a  notable  as- 
sumption of  indifference. 

"May  a  man  tell  fibs  ?"  she  asked,  with  the  ut- 
most sweetness. 

"A  man  may,"  said  Paul,  trying  to  turn  the 
conversation  ;  "a  woman — must.  You  simply  re- 
verse my  previous  rule." 

"Pshaw  !"  said  the  blind  girl,  recklessly,  "hasn't 
your  mother  a  garden?" 

"Scarcely  enough  to  mention,"  retorted  Paul. 

"Who  looks  after  it?"  persisted  Elsie. 

"When  I  can  find  time,  myself,"  said  Paul, 
mendaciously,  forgetting  his  recent  disclaimer  of 
horticultural  knowledge. 

"Thank  you,"  sniffed  Elsie,  slipping  from  her 
throne ;  "that  will  do ;  you  were  going  to  see  my 
father,  pray  don't  let  me  detain  you,"  and  she 
caught  up  the  Angora  in  her  arms — "do  you 
know,  I  feel  that  Tommie  has  taken  quite  a  dis- 
like to  you ;  run  away  quickly,  he  is  very  danger- 
ous at  times — to — to  strangers!" 

With  which  fling  Elsie  disappeared  through  a 
door  at  the  farther  side  of  the  sunny  sitting-room, 
leaving  her  invited  guest  to  his  own  devices.  He 
took  his  departure,  thrilled  by  a  great  pity,  and 
regaining  the  hall,  entered  the  library. 

"I  come  unannounced,"  he  said,  apologetic- 
ally, "your  French  windows  permitted  me  to  see 
that  you  were  alone.  But  I  needed  the  services 
of  a  mat — our  moorland  residence  is>  still  over  our 


'A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  85 

ankles — so  went  round  to  the  front  and  was  cap- 
tured by  Elsie." 

"Tommie,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Patrick  Stu- 
art; "he  is  Elsie's  newest  treasure." 

"Treasure!"  ejaculated  Paul,  wheeling  out  his 
favorite  arm-chair ;  "she  assured  him  in  my  pres- 
ence that  she  hated  him." 

"Elsie  is  a  woman,"  said  the  vicar;  "with 
women  petting  generally  takes  the  form  of  bully- 
ing." 

"Sagacious  man !"  bantered  Paul ;  "I  envy  you 
your  stock  of  aphorisms.  Repeat  me  some  on — 
on  Death,  for  instance.-" 

The  vicar  grew  serious. 

"Death  is  too  grim  a  subject  for  the  aphorist," 
he  protested. 

"My  apostolic  namesake  did  not  find  it  so,"  re- 
plied the  younger  man;  "defend  me,  oh  son  of 
the  Church,  her  service  for  the  dead." 

"Which  part  of  it,"  parried  the  vicar. 

"All  of  it,"  answed  Paul,  "but  especially  that 
'sure  and  certain  hope'  which  is  neither  sure  nor 
certain.  Said  over  a  saint  it  is  a  tragedy — for 
the  living ;  said  over  a  sinner  it  is  a  comedy — for 
the  dead." 

Patrick  Stuart  made  a  motion  of  dislike.  His 
visitor  was  ruthless.  "The  Galvanism  of  it  hits 
like  a  bludgeon,"  he  said ;  "  'shortly  to  accom- 
plish the  number  of  Thine  elect' — whittle  that 
down,  you  amiable  Jesuit." 

"There  is  no  need,"  demurred  the  vicar,  skil- 


86  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

fully;  "I  am  no  Low  Churchman,  to  claim  plen- 
ary inspiration  for  the  Prayer-book." 

"Nay,"  said  Paul ;  "if  you  are  going  to  jetti- 
son your  spiritual  cargo  at  that  rate  I  am  done. 
But  tell  me — 'in  the  beaten  way  of  friendship,'  as 
Hamlet  has  it — where  do  you  suppose  my  luck- 
less devil  of  a  father  is  now  ?" 

Patrick  Stuart  took  a  quiet  inspiration.  "You 
hit  between  the  eyes.  Paul,"  he  commented. 

"And  then  get  ready  to  parry  one  of  your 
cross-counters,"  was  the  retort;  "well,  fire  away." 

"Can  you  reply  to  your  own  question?"  de- 
manded the  vicar. 

"No,"  said  Paul,  frankly. 

"Yet  you  quarrel  with  my  answer,"  objected 
the  casuist. 

"I  haven't  heard  it  yet,"  fenced  Paul;  "what 
is  it?" 

"He  is  in  God's  hands,"  said  Patrick  Stuart. 

"An  anthropomorphic  simile,"  thrust  his  op- 
ponent. 

"In  God's  keeping,  then." 

"You  base  one  hypothesis  on  another,"  came 
the  swift  riposte;  "the  old  story  of  the  elephant 
and  the  tortoise." 

"Do  you  challenge  my  primary  one  ?" 

"The  existence  of  God  ? — no." 

"Do  you  accept  it?" 

"As  a  working  hypothesis,  yes.  Is  it  likely 
ever  to  be  anything  else  on  this  side  of  the 
grave?" 


A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  87 

"If  it  ever  were  anything  else — on  this  side  of 
the  grave — would  not  the  Christian  faith  become 
a  contradiction  in  terms?" 

Paul  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair.  "You 
are  one  too  many  for  me!"  he  owned;  "but  you 
still  leave  my  father  an  uncharted  comet." 

"In  a  universe  of  law  and  order,"  returned  the 
vicar,  with  a  smile  of  the  practiced  debater  who 
has  once  more  demonstrated  his  skill. 

His  adversary  abandoned  the  duel. 

"A  new  aspect  of  the  paternal  problem  has  pre- 
sented itself,"  he  observed  inconsequently ;  "it 
appears  from  American  advices  that  there  are,  as 
my  father  hinted,  dollars,  also  a  will — a  will 
chiefly  charitable  but  with  a  sweeping  codicil  in 
my  favor.  My  father  was  a  careful  man;  the 
codicil  bears  date  immediately  before  his  sailing 
for  England." 

"I  congratulate  you,"  said  Patrick  Stuart. 

"So  can  not  I  myself,"  rejoined  Paul;  "being 
the  victim  of  a  syllogism — as  thus.  Wealth  got- 
ten by  deserting  a  wife  is  unholy.  This  money 
was  got  by  deserting  a  wife.  Ergo, — this  money 
is  unholy;  corollary, — I  can  not  avail  myself  of 
my  father's  bequest." 

"I  think,"  criticized  the  vicar,  "that  your  sec- 
ond premise  is  a  little  obscure." 

"My  mother's  commentaries  reduce  it  to  noon- 
day clearness,"  declared  the  logician. 

"May  you  not  eventually  regret  this — this  chiv- 


88  A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

alric  abnegation?"  propounded  his  mentor,  "in 
the  event  of  marriage,  for  example." 

The  younger  started,  then  regained  his  indif- 
ferent bearing.  "I  hope  not,"  he  replied ;  "how- 
ever, I  am  about  to  add  to  my  resources  a  pro- 
fession, once  the  occupation  of  that  illustrious 
nation,  the  Jews.  I  allude  to  brickmaking." 

"Paul!"  ejaculated  Patrick  Stuart. 

"It  is  quite  true,"  asseverated  the  other  calmly. 
"Gary  is  leaving  us,  and  I  am  going  to  give  an 
eye  to  the  business  myself.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, I  have  rejoiced  my  mother's  heart  by 
accepting  a  small  salary  out  of  the  earnings  of 
the  mill." 

"And  abandoning  your  pen?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  decided  Paul;  "that  has 
prospered  in  my  hand,  and  seems  likely  to  go  on 
doing  so ;  I  am  a  budding  capitalist.  No,  I  shall 
only  enter  the  province  of  Goshen  on  Fridays  and 
Saturdays,  to  pay  wages  and  balance  books. 
Gary  has  found  me  a  brother  Scot  for  whom  he 
vouches,  without  enthusiasm,  yet  also  without 
circumlocution.  So  everything  is  as  it  should 
be." 

"Have  you  ever  realized,  Paul,"  asked  the 
vicar,  "that  you  are  actually  a  very  odd  person  ?" 

"Am  I?"  responded  his  protegf,  and  fell  upon 
thought. 

"Is  your  engagement  to  supervise  the  brick- 
making  enterprise  not — not  likely,"  asked  Patrick 
Stuart,  "to  prove  in  the  end  irksome,  to — to — ?" 


'A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  89 

"To  an  essential  dilettante  such  as  I  ? — perhaps 
so.  Yet  there  is  a  promising-  precedent — when 
the  plague  of  darkness  fell  upon  Egypt  it  was  in 
the  land  of  Goshen  that  there  was  light." 

The  vicar  smiled.  "I  can  break  a  lance  with 
you  at  argument,"  he  rejoined,  "but  you  are  my 
master  in  analogy.  Only,  as  you  kno\v,  the  com- 
parative is  the  dangerous  method." 

The  other  had  risen  and  was  overhauling  a 
row  of  book-titles. 

"Lend  me  a  bit  of  print,"  he  said.  "I  seem 
to  have  lost  touch  with  my  own  demure  collec- 
tion. Where  do  you  keep  your  poetry  ? — I  fancy 
something  a  trifle  maddish." 

The  vicar  indicated  the  press — verbally.  Paul 
surveyed  the  shelves.  He  put  out  a  finger  and 
thumb  and  took  down  a  thin  yet  handsome  quarto. 

"Poe,"  he  remarked;  "what  a  glorious  get-up; 
— archaic  prints,  though." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Patrick  Stuart ;  "it  dates  back 
to  the  days  of  peg-top  trousers  and  decent  wood- 
engraving.  Are  the  verses  maddish  enough  for 
you?" 

The  student  was  turning  the  stiff  pages.  "Ara- 
besque interrogation-points  carved  on  tomb- 
stones," he  said,  "but  'Annabel  Lee'  is  immortal. 
When  I  was  a  round-eyed,  big-headed  cubling, 
the  slave  of  a  Dutch  grease-agent — those  were 
the  days  before  we  fell  heir  to  the  land  of  Goshen 
— I  read  the  poem  in  a  dingy  library-book  one 
doleful  November  evening;  and  when  I  came  to 


90  A    SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

the  lines  about  'the  angels  up  in  heaven  went  en- 
vying her  and  me.'  I  gave  a  lachrymose  gulp 
that  dwells  in  my  memory  yet.  The  statement 
was  so  frightfully  succinct.  I  had  a  bad  habit 
of  snivelling  in  those  times;  not  pusillanimously, 
of  course — the  throb  of  sympathy  woke,  vibrated 
into  pain,  and  there  were  tears.  My  mother  has 
the  faculty  still — a  word  or  a  glance  tender  be- 
yond the  common  wets  her  eyes  in  a  twinkling." 

He  tucked  the  book  under  his  arm.  "I  can 
borrow  this?"  he  inquired. 

"Certainly,"  said  the  vicar,  "but  have  pity  on 
my  margins — my  pet  Milton  is  a  thing  of  horror, 
thanks  to  your  misplaced  humor." 

Paul  laughed  and  carried  off  the  volume. 
Elsie  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"Mr.  Gotch,"  she  began,  "I  was  rude  to  you 
just  now;  I  apologize!" 

"My  dear  Elsie!"  said  Paul,  deprecatingly, 
but  the  blind  girl  insisted. 

"I  was,  I  was,  I  was!"  she  repeated;  "and  I 
was  a  contemptible  little  minx,  too:  I  tried  to 
break  a  promise  I  had  made.  That  will  do,  Mr. 
Gotch,  thank  you."  And  she  returned  up-stairs 
with  much  dignity,  to  call  down  from  the  landing, 
"I  was  wrong  about  Tommie;  he  was  evidently 
quite  fond  of  you." 

Paul  went  away,  saddened  by  a  wondering  re- 
flection. He  had  asked  himself  what  would  be- 
come of  the  other's  arch  gaiety  under  the  blow 
that  was  in  store  for  her. 


A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  91 

The  crux  of  the  problem  was  not  long  post- 
poned. That  same  night  Elsie  crept  out  to  the 
sandstone  wall  whose  breast-high  parapet  divided 
for  her  the  Real  and  the  Ideal.  Allan  Gary  had 
already  gained  the  trysting-place. 

The  blind  girl  was  in  a  coquettish  mood.  "I 
am  sorry  I  wasn't  here  first,"  she  said;  "I'd  have 
scolded  you  finely,  fairy  prince.  Tell  me,  is  there 
a  moon?" 

"Ay,  a  real  bonnie  yin,"  said  the  dwarf. 

"S-s-h!"  whispered  Elsie;  "speak  low.  I  will 
tell  you  something,  fairy  prince*  I  am  afraid  of 
the  moon.  It  is  a  mystery — a  great,  cold,  smooth 
mystery,  high  up  in  the  air.  Only  fairies  are  not 
afraid  of  her.  Sad  stories  always  have  a  moon 
in  them.  Justine  has  told  me  a  few ;  those  where 
the  lovers  don't  get  one  another,  where  men  fight, 
and  horses  gallop,  and  women  scream.  And  then 
everything  is  quiet  again  and  the  moon  comes  out, 
and  it  grows  colder  and  colder  till  you  scream 
and  waken  up,  and  it's  only  a  story,  after  all." 

"Ye  shouldna  think  o*  sic  things,"  said  the 
Scot,  anxiously. 

"Oh,  it's  not  so  bad  as  I  make  out,"  confessed 
Elsie.  "Sometimes  I  like  it,  just  as  I  like  your 
songs — the  sorrowful  ones  that  bring  a  lump  up 
in  my  throat — 'Wae's  me  for  the  'oor,  Willie,' 
and  the  rest  of  them." 

Allan  Gary  dashed  his  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"Sing  me  that  one,  fairy  prince,"  demanded 
the  petulant  voice. 


92  "A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Onything  but  that,"  said  the  dwarf,  brokenly; 
"onything  but  that !" 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Elsie;  "I  often  sing  it  to 
myself,  especially  that  bit  about  'Wae's  me  for 
the  destiny  that  gart  me  luve  thee  sae.'  I  asked 
Justine  what  destiny  was,  and  she  said  'Fate,' 
and  fate  is  like  all  sorts  of  things,  but  most  like 
a  big  wind  that  blows  and  blows  and  blows,  and 
you've  just  to  go  with  it.  Fate  is  like  the  moon, 
a  mystery — you  can  never  puzzle  it  out."  She 
broke  off.  "You  talk  now,"  she  said,  "I've  told 
you  enough." 

The  Scot  nerved  himself  to  the  ordeal. 

"I  hae  a  favor  t'  ask  ye,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  what?"  responded  the  blind  girl. 

"Ye  mind,"  went  on  Allan  Gary,  "the  promise 
I  gie'd  ye  no'  tae  leave  ye  till  ye  should  send  me 
awa?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  returned  Elsie*;  "I  never  felt 
certain  of  you  before.  But  as  Mr.  Gotch  says, 
men  must  keep  their  promises — women  can  if  they 
choose  to.  At  least,  that  is  what  he  meant." 

"Weel,"  said  the  dwarf,  "I  want  ye  tae  gie  me 
that  promise  back  again." 

"Certainly  not,"  declared  Elsie;  "and  I  really 
didn't  think  you'd  get  tired  of  me  so  soon." 

"I  weary  o'  ye !"  cried  the  Scot  tempestuously ; 
"my  God !  it's  teirin'  me  heirt  oot  tae  bid  ye  let 
me  gae — dinna  ye  mock  me." 

"O-o-oh!"  said  Elsie,  with  a  coo  of  infinite 
penitence  and  compassion ;  "I  didn't  mean  it,  fairy 


'A  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  93 

prince ;  I  didn't  mean  it,  really.  But  I  can't  let 
you  go — don't,  don't  ask  me  to!'' 

"Then  I  maun  gae  withoot  yer  leave,"  said 
Allan  Gary,  brokenly;  "I  hae  dune  ye  a  cruel 
vvrang,  and  I  maim  e'en  break  ma  word  tae  set  a' 
richt  again.  But  dinna  ye  think  I  can  forget  ye 
— dinna  ye  think  that." 

Elsie  gasped,  caught  at  her  full  white  throat, 
and  sank  shuddering  upon  the  wall. 

"I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !"  she  cried,  chokingly.  "I 
knew  you  were  never  really  mine — never!  G© 
back  to  your  own  place,  fairy  prince ;  I  will  stop 
here  and  let  the  moon  make  me  colder  and  colder 
until  I  die." 

Allan  Gary  struggled  with  his  misery.  Elsie 
caught  a  pathetic  sound. 

"Oh,  I  am  cruel !"  she  said  dejectedly ;  "it's  as 
hard  for  you  as  it  is  for  me,  isn't  it?  Fate  has 
got  hold  of  you,  and  it's  no  use  fighting;  I  will 
be  brave.  Have  your  promise  back  again.  Now 
you  can  go  away  without  breaking  your  word, 
like  a  true  knight;  and  I  can  die  without  being 
ashamed  of  myself." 

"Dinna  speak  o'  deein'!"  begged  the  dwarf; 
"if  ye  wad  hae  me  curse  the  day  I  saw  the  licht, 
tell  me  I  hae  made  ye  loth  to  live." 

"Why  should  I  want  to  live?"  asked  Elsie, 
weakly;  "you  are  going  away  forever — I  shall 
fancy  you  are  dead,  too." 

Allan  Gary  was  silent.       A  woman's  soul  is 


94  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

bird-like  and  frail ;  this  one  might  slip  out  of  life 
so  easily. 

"Listen !"  he  said ;  "wad  it  mak  ye  ony  happier 
if  I  promised  ye  a  sign  that  I  am  no  deid?" 

Elsie  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  at  the  implied 
division  of  the  victory. 

"Send  me  a  gnome  once  a  month  to  tell  me 
that  you  are  alive  and  love  me,"  she  offered,  "and 
I  will  do  anything  you  wish." 

"I  hae  nae  gnomes  tae  sen'  ye,"  said  the  Scot, 
"but  yince  a  month  I'll  sen'  ye  a  flooer,  and  ye' 11 
ken  it  comes  fra  me.  If  it  disna  come  for  twa 
months  together,  I'll  hae  passed  awa.  And  if  I 
can,  I'll  wait  for  ye  on  the  ither  side;  an'  if  there 
is  nae  ither  side,  I  shall  hae  rest  from  my  punish- 
ment." 

"Punishment!"  answered  Elsie;  "have  you 
done  something  dreadful,  like  the  Wandering 
Jew?" 

"Ay,"  said  the  dwarf,  "I  hae  stolen  a  young 
thing's  heirt  out  o'  her  bosom  and  her  peace  with 
it.  An'  sae  I  hae  lost  my  ain  peace  for  ever." 

"That's  me,"  whispered  the  blind  girl;  "never 
mind,  fairy  prince;  I  am  really  quite  absurdly 
happy.  I  shall  know  that  you  are  somewhere 
loving  me,  and  if  I  cry  over  it,  I  shall  be  enjoy- 
ing myself  in  a  fashion.  Don't  be  silly  and 
blame  yourself,  fairy  prince,  because  it's  all  fate, 
and  fate  is  a  bigger  mystery  than  the  moon. 
You'll  kiss  me  good-bye,  fairy  prince?" 


TA  CONTROVERSY  AND  A  COMPACT  95 

"Gin  yell'll  let  me/'  said  Allan  Gary,  huskily. 

Elsie  held  out  her  arms.  A  pair  of  bearded 
lips  met  hers  in  the  darkness,  then  parted  from 
them,  and  she  was  standing  alone  by  the  sand- 
stone wall  with  the  poplars  shivering  overhead. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    KING    OF    TERRORS 

THE  low-ceiled  room,  whose  wide  bay  windovv 
held  Paul  Gotch's  oaken  work-table,  was  no  longer 
the  abode  of  quiet  thought  and  patient  labor.  A 
shadow  haunted  it — the  shadow  of  a  man  who 
had  passed  its  door  but  once  in  life  and  once  in 
death.  The  strengthless  ghosts  of  memory  are 
often  more  persistent  than  those  of  superstition; 
er»*er  it  when  Paul  would,  the  place  seemed  ten- 
anted. Once  a  board  creaked  under  his  foot, 
and  recollection  photographed  upon  his  retina  the 
powerful  figure  of  the  mysterious  Christopher : 
square  shoulders,  acute  eyes,  assertive  mouth,  the 
salient  features  of  a  vigorous  frame  and  striking 
physiognomy.  Upon  the  settee  was  a  dull  patch 
or  two,  where  the  dripping  body  of  the  drowned 
had  taken  the  gloss  from  the  leather;  imagin- 
ation blotted  them  out  all  too  easily  by  a  phantasm 
of  the  rigid  limbs  and  strenuous  torso,  gallant  as 
those  of  Velasquez's  "Dead  Warrior."  Selina 
Gotch,  more  hostile  and  no  less  sensitive  than  her 
son,  shunned  the  apartment  for  some  while.  Paul 
96 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  97 

fretted  unprofitably  over  his  pen,  and  lost  him- 
self in  interminable  reveries. 

It  was  upon  such  a  mood  that  Allan  Gary  broke 
with  his  farewell. 

"I've  seen  yer  mither,"  he  said  abruptly,  paus- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  floor ;  "she  sent  me  in 
here.  I  was  for  gettin'  awa  withoot  troubling 
ye ;  I  hae  had  ma  fill  o'  pairtin's." 

Paul  left  his  chair  and  grasped  both  the 
dwarf's  hands  in  his  own. 

"It  wouldn't  have  been  kind  to  leave  me  out, 
Allan,"  he  protested. 

"Maybe  no,"  answered  Allan  Gary,  dispiritedly; 
"weel,  guid-bye  t'ye." 

"Mayn't  I  know  where  you  are  going?"  asked 
the  younger. 

"I  dinna  ken,"  returned  the  Scot. 

"You'll  write  to  me,  then,"  entreated  Paul. 

The  dwarf  shook  his  head.  "I  maun  forget 
ye,"  he  said,  "it's  the  only  way ;  ye're  ower  near 
— her;  I  hae  gi'en  a  promise  already  I  sair  mis- 
doot  the  wisdom  o'.  Dinna  bind  me  tae  ma  folly 
wi'  any  mair." 

"Very  well,"  said  Paul;  "since  you  wish  it, 
you  shall  shake  off  the  dust  of  your  feet  against 
me  and  my  house.  Good-bye  and  good  luck  to 
you,  Allan;  our  friendship  has  been  very  pleas- 
ant." 

"Ye're  richt,"  muttered  Allan  Gary;  "it  tak's 
nae  toll  o'  a  man's  peace  that  his  heirt  has  been 
warmed  in  the  light  o'  anither  man's  countenance. 


98  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

'Tis  like  the  blessing  of  God,  'at  mak's  rich  and 
brings  nae  sorrow  with  it.  The  heirt  'at  turns 
itself  toward  a  woman  is  like  the  bird  'at  sings 
wi'  its  briest  to  a  thorn ;  eh,  but  the  sang  is  bonny, 
and  the  stound  is  sweet." 

He  stopped  to  listen  hungrily. 

"Did  ye  hear  that?"  he  said. 

"What  was  it?"  asked  the  other. 

"Her  voice,"  whispered  the  dwarf;  "she  hasna 
come  tae  see  ye,  surely." 

"It  is  hardly  probable,"  said  Paul,  marveling. 

Allan  Gary  caught  his  arm  in  a  grip  of  steel. 
"I  maun  be  fey,"  he  said,  sibilantly,  "there  'tis 
again." 

"Then  I  am,  too,"  said  Paul,  "for  I  could  have 
sworn  that  none  other  than  Elsie  Stuart  had 
spoken. 

As  they  strained  their  attention  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Mrs.  Gotch's  little  maid  came 
in,  announcing:  "Two  ladies  to  see  you,  sir." 
The  women  who  entered  were  Justine  Dupin  and 
Elsie  Stuart. 

Allan  Gary  drew  back,  clutching  nervously  at 
his  soft  hat.  His  eyes  met  Paul's — beseeching, 
tragic,  the  white  spark  of  agony  in  them.  The 
next  moment,  realizing  that  Elsie  was  accompa- 
nied, he  slipped  behind  a  broad  four-fold  screen. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Gotch,"  said  Elsie.  Paul 
started ;  both  at  the  forced  animation  of  the  tone 
and  the  utter  dejection  of  the  usually  lively  little 
figure.  "I  have  come  to  see  you  at  last — and 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  99 

without  an  invitation.  Justine  can  go  and  talk  to 
your  mother,  who  is  very  nice  indeed ;  we  have 
been  speaking-  to  her  in  the  hall.  She  thought  we 
wanted  a  subscription." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  put  in  Mrs.  Gotch  from  the 
threshold ;  "but  hearing  you  were  from  the  vicar- 
age—" 

"Quite  so,"  conceded  Elsie;  "I  tell  papa  we 
have  far  too  many  beggars  going  around  for  St. 
Faith's,  it's  disgraceful.  And  you  really  won't 
mind  me  seeing  Mr.  Gotch  alone  on  a  matter  of 
business — just  for  a  moment ;  he's  a  great  friend 
of  my  father's,  you  know." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  remarked  Selina  Gotch; 
"come,  Miss  Dupin,  let  me  show  you  my  chick- 
ens, I  have  quite  a  lot ;  it  is  my  one  hobby." 

"Then  you  have  always  fresh  eggs,"  said  Jus- 
tine, practically;  "I  would  love  them  for  Elsie." 
And  she  swept  her  black  silk  skirts  from  the 
room. 

Paul  put  his  visitor  into  a  comfortable  chair 
and  paused  beside  her,  anxious  for  the  tortured 
Gary,  and  hazarding  useless  guesses  at  Elsie's 
mission. 

The  blind  girl  mused,  her  embarrassment  show- 
ing itself  in  her  face. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Gotch,"  she  began  tentatively, 
"that  I  am  very  ignorant." 

"Circumstances  have  been  exceptionally  cruel 
to  you,  my  poor  Elsie,"  said  Paul. 

"That  doesn't  help  me,  does  it?"  inquired  Elsie, 


ioo          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

at  a  tangent;  "I  am  ignorant — shamefully! — and 
I  want  you  to  explain  something." 

"I  am  quite  at  your  service,"  was  the  somewhat 
indiscreet  response. 

"Then,"  said  the  blind  girl,  rising  quickly, 
"what  is  it  to  be  dead?" 

Paul  Gotch  was  taken  aback. 

"Dead !"  he  repeated,  "surely  you  know." 

"Surely  I  don't  know,"  flounced  Elsie.  "When 
I  ask  Justine  she  says,  'N'importe,  ch/rie,'  and 
when  I  pout,  she  says,  'One  is  whisked  off  to 
fairy-land,  I'oil'b  tout!'  When  I  ask  Dearie  he 
says,  'God  takes  us  to  be  with  Him  for  ever,  my 
child;'  and  when  Dearie  talks  about  God  he 
doesn't  believe  a  word  he  says.  What  is  a  fun- 
eral, Mr.  Gotch?" 

"Tell  me  first,"  Paul  stipulated,  "why  you  want 
to  know  so  much  all  of  a  sudden." 

"Why?"  cried  Elsie;  "oh,  because — because 
some  one  I  care  a  good  deal  for  said — oh,  well, 
we've  all  got  to  die ;  Dearie  tells  us  so  in  his  ser- 
mons, and  I  want  to  know  what  dying  is." 

Her  elected  authority  noticed  by  chance  the 
volume  of  Poe  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and 
shrank  from  sowing  in  this  delicate  intellect  the 
seed  which  had  brought  forth  such  horrors  in 
the  poet's  mind.  Yet  the  nebulous  is  often  more 
terrible  than  the  precise. 

"When  we  die,  Elsie,"  he  said  slowly,  "we 
cease  to  be  part  of  the  world  of  living,  thinking, 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS          101 

acting  men  and  women,  and  our  spirits  fly 
away " 

"What  are  our  spirits?"  he  was  interrupted, 
to  be  further  posed  by  the  remark :  "If  you're  not 
going  to  be  honest,  Mr.  Gotch,  I  shall  go  back  to 
Justine  at  once,  and  I  shall  dislike  you  extremely 
ever  afterwards.  I  can  always  feel  when  people 
are  just — parroting — there,  I've  said  it,  and  I 
don't  care !" 

Paul  gathered  his  dispersed  wits. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  returned ;  "I  will  tell 
you  as  much  of  the  truth  as  I  know.  Death  is 
something  that  no  one  can  explain,  just  as  life  is 
something  that  no  one  comprehends.  When  we 
die,  all  that  is  peculiarly  ourselves  leaves  us — we 
do  not  eat  or  drink  or  walk  or  recognize  our 
friends;  we  are  silent  and  still,  as  if  we  were 
sleeping.  In  a  short  time  what  of  us  is  left 
would  begin  to  pass  away,  too,  as  snow  does  un- 
der your  fingers.  So  while  it  is  yet  what  the 
living  knew  and  loved,  they  put  it  from  them  and 
think  only  of  the  man  or  woman  who  was  so 
dear  to  them." 

"What  do  they  do  with  it?"  queried  Elsie,  fear- 
fully. 

"In  some  countries  they  burn  it/'  said  Paul, 
with  considerable  trepidation ;  "in  most  Christian 
ones  it  is  laid  very  gently  in  a  great  chest  lined 
with  cushions  «and  buried  in  the  ground,  and  the 
grass  and  the  flowers  grow  over  the  place  where 


102          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

it  lies,  and  the  trees  bend  over  it  and  the  rain 
sheds  tender  tears  over  it." 

The  blind  girl  shuddered.  "Is  that  all?"  she 
said :  "I  think  I  guessed  that  much." 

"All  that  we  are  certain  of,"  owned  her  pre- 
ceptor; "but  the  world  has  never  really  believed 
that  that  was  the  end.  Just  as  this  town  is  not 
the  only  town,  so  our  earth  is  not  the  only  planet 
in  the  sky.  It  has  always  been  trusted  that  we 
live  again  elsewhere  in  a  happier  and  a  better 
world." 

"Some  of  us,"  said  Elsie;  "you  mean  heaven — 
what  about — h'm! — you  know." 

"Yes,"  answered  Paul,  sadly;  "men  have  also 
imagined  a  place  of  punishment  for  the  wicked. 
But  if  we  do  live  a  conscious  existence  again, 
that  will  be  because  there  is  a  God,  and  a  God 
that  understands  everything.  We  are  only  un- 
lucky mites,  we  men ;  if  He  is,  He  is  God,  and  He 
will  pity  us." 

"So  it's  only  a  chance,  after  all,"  concluded 
Elsie. 

"To  be  more  frank  than  most  people  dare  be, 
yes,"  said  Paul. 

Elsie  meditated  deeply. 

"Thank  you,"  she  observed  at  length;  "it's  a 
weight  off  my  mind — I  don't  think  I'm  afraid 
any  more.  Still,  it's  better  to  live,  isn't  it? — it 
may  be  all  there  is  for  us." 

"That   is  so,"   said  the  expositor;   "and  the 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  103 

thought  is  the  mainspring  of  all  human  endeav- 
or." 

"Do  you  believe  in  God?"  pursued  Elsie. 

Paul  pondered. 

"Candidly,"  he  admitted,  "I  regard  Him  as  a 
Probability  of  the  highest  order ;  once  or  twice  at 
important  moments  in  my  life  I  have  staked 
heavily  on  that  Probability." 

"You  are  a  very  honest  person,"  was  Elsie's 
final  comment.  She  turned  about.  "There's 
Justine  come  back  for  me,"  she  said. 

Paul  held  his  breath.  Allan  Gary,  moving 
with  stealthy  steps  had  crossed  the  room  and 
gained  the  unlatched  door.  As  he  drew  it  ajar 
the  hinge  had  creaked  and  provoked  Elsie's  con- 
cluding remark.  He  looked  at  the  blind  girl  as 
he  stepped  out — a  look  passionate  and  pitiful  to 
the  limits  of  expression — and  made  to  Paul  a 
lingering  gesture  of  farewell. 

"No,"  said  Elsie,  after  a  pause,  "it's  my  mis- 
take. I  have  another  favor  to  ask  you,  Mr. 
Gotch ;  take  me  to  one  of  these  places  where  they 
put  the  dead  people." 

Paul  demurred.     The  blind  girl  insisted. 

"I  only  want  to  know  if  it  feels  any  different," 
she  vouchsafed. 

"But  Justine  will  object,"  temporized  Paul. 

"We  won't  tell  her,"  was  Elsie's  solution  of 
the  difficulty ;  "you  can  just  say  you're  taking  me 
for  a  jaunt — papa  is  always  telling  me  to  go  for 
jaunts." 


104  A    SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

Before  this  ingenious  determination  her  host 
was  impotent ;  he  went  to  the  sitting-room  and 
gave  a  diplomatic  version  of  Elsie's  message. 
Justine  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  see  how  wilful  a  &^5/mine  is,  Madame." 
she  expounded  to  Mrs.  Gotch ;  "eh  bien,  I  will 
walk  myself  a  little,  and  come  again  for  Elsie 
when  she  shall  have  returned." 

"Nay,"  said  Paul,  "I  will  bring  Elsie  to  the 
vicarage  myself." 

"Xot  too  late,  that  is  understood,"  cautioned 
Miss  Dupin,  seriously. 

"Quite,"  asseverated  the  custodian,  and  took 
himself  off,  glad  not  to  be  further  questioned  as 
to  his  charge's  whim. 

"This  is  where  you  make  your  bricks,  isn't  it?" 
asked  Elsie,  clasping  his  arm  as  they  traversed 
the  clayfield. 

"Where  they  are  made  for  us,"  said  her  guide. 

"That's  what  I  meant,"  retorted  the  blind  girl : 
"is  it  a  nice  business  ?" 

"The  mill  does  most  of  it,"  intimated  Paul; 
"the  thing  responsible  for  that  noise  you  may 
have  noticed.  In  the  old  days  brickmaking  was 
a  very  sloppy  process — men  and  boys  and  water 
ad  lib.  Now  the  pug-mill  does  it  nearly  all." 

"Then  how  do  the  men  and  boys  get  a  living 
now?"  queried  Elsie. 

"An  economic  problem  of  the  worst  sort,  Miss 
Wisdom ;  in  the  language  of  the  discreet  political 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS          105 

scientist,  they  have  been  absorbed  by  oilier  indus- 
tries. Here  is  our  tram." 

He  piloted  the  blind  girl  to  a  corner,  and  they 
talked  of  indifferent  matters.  A  brief  ride 
brought  them  to  the  massive  pillars  and  entrance 
gates  of  the  cemetery  to  which  Paul  Gotch  had 
journeyed  under  such  diverse  circumstances.  As 
they  walked  down  the  principal  avenue,  he  told 
Elsie  of  his  father's  strange  visit  and  singular 
death. 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  asked  you  all  those  questions," 
said  his  companion,  "it  only  reminded  you." 

"No,"  decided  Paul;  "I  think  it  helped  to  clear 
off  some  of  the  haze  in  my  mind." 

"And  he  is  buried  here?"  inquired  Elsie;  "take 
me  to  it,  please." 

The  son  of  Christopher  Gotch  directed  their 
course  towards  the  still  virgin  portion  of  the 
great  enclosure.  His  father's  grave  was  as  yet 
a  strip  of  ruddy  earth,  the  sign  that  a  superstruc- 
ture was  intended :  head  and  coping-stones  were 
in  preparation,  though  Selina  Gotch  did  not  know 
of  it. 

"Is  this  the  place?"  inquired  Elsie,  feeling  that 
Paul  stopped. 

Her  guide  assented.  The  blind  girl  stood  re- 
flectively for  a  space. 

"Y-yes,"  she  said ;  "it  makes  one  feel  sad — and 
cold.  Are  there  a  lot  of  people  buried  here?" 

"A  vast  multitude,"  answered  Paul. 

"Poor  things !"  sighed  Elsie. 


106  A   SOX   OP   AUSTERITY 

Paul  did  not  answer ;  he  had  turned  towards 
the  grave  where  the  woman  Frances  Latimer  had 
been  buried :  it  was  already  covered  with  green 
turf — no  costly  monument  loomed  on  its  horizon. 
The  arm  upon  which  Elsie  leaned  was  trembling ; 
a  sudden  commotion  had  sprung  up  about  the 
man's  heart.  By  the  verdant  mound  which 
swelled  over  that  bewept  coffin,  a  woman  lay — a 
woman  who  was  very,  very  still.  He  knew  her 
for  his  black-robed  queen  of  tragedy.  Though 
why  his  heart  beat  so  wildly  he  could  not  have 
told. 

"Elsie,"  he  said,  with  dry  lips,  "close  to  us 
there  is  a — a  young  lady — by  a  grave ;  I — I  think 
she  has  fainted." 

"Then  take  me  to  her,"  said  Elsie;  "Justine 
faints  sometimes — after  a  row  with  Dearie — and 
I  always  bring  her  round  myself.  Then  you  can 
run  and  get  some  water." 

Paul  led  the  groping  Samaritan  across  the 
sward.  The  woman  was  indeed  she  whom  he  had 
seen  in  the  church  a  few  days  earlier,  Elsie's 
ringers  touched  a  soft  bosom ;  she  knelt  down  and 
they  traveled  to  a  pale  face.  Then  she  made  a 
lap  and  lifted  the  relaxed  shoulders  into  it. 

"Quick,"  she  cried,  "the  water." 

Paul  ran  fiercely;  a  cottage  was  not  far  off, 
about  it  a  sweep  of  youngling  shrubbery — the 
material  for  future  plantations.  No  one  was 
within;  the  seeker  found  a  tap  and  a  glass,  and 
hurried  back  with  the  cool  fluid. 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  107 

Elsie  had  freed  the  throat  of  her  uno /:  ;  .us 
patient;  she  heard  her  emissary's  step,  aiui  drew 
the  wrappings  to  with  hovering  maternal  lingers. 
Paul  stooped  and  held  the  glass  to  Elsie'.',  hand ; 
she  dipped  her  fingers  in  it  and  wetted  the  low, 
wide  forehead.  Presently  there  was  a  long  and 
hopeless  respiration. 

"Go  away,"  ordered  Elsie;  "she'll  be  afraid  of 
you." 

The  command  was  obeyed ;  the  blind  girl  was 
mistress  of  the  situation. 

Her  patient  stirred  in  the  protecting  arms,  cried 
"Where  am  I?"  and  sat  up. 

"S-s-sh!"  said  Elsie,  clinging  to  her  cautiously ; 
"it's  all  right;  you  went  off,  you  know,  and  I 
brought  you  to.  But  please  don't  run  away,  be- 
cause I'm  blind,  and  your  collar  wants  fastening." 

"I  don't  understand,"  objected  a  tremulous 
voice;  "how  did  you  know  I  had  fainted  if  you 
are  blind?" 

"I  had  a  gentleman  with  me,"  announced  Elsie, 
cheerfully,  "and  he  saw  you.  So  first  I  sent  him 
for  some  water  and  then  I  sent  him  about  his 
business.  May  I  call  him  back?  He's  really 
very  nice.  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  either  of  us ; 
I'm  Mr.  Stuart's  daughter,  the  vicar  of  St. 
Faith's,  and  he  is  a  great  friend  of  my  father's. 
May  I  call  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  please,"  answered  the  patient,  who 
was  presentable  once  more. 


loS          'A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Mr.  Gotch,"  summoned  Elsie,  "you  can  take 
the  man  his  glass  back  now/' 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Paul,  and  stepped  up 
again.  The  other  of  the  sighted  persons  rose  to 
her  feet,  or  rather  tried  to,  for  she  swayed  and 
stumbled,  to  be  caught  by  a  strong  hand. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  not  yet  quite  fit  to  move," 
its  owner  warned  her.  Their  eyes  met,  and  he 
saw  that  she  recognized  him. 

"Dear  me,"  exclaimed  the  blind  girl,  "is  she 
going  off  again?" 

"No,  oh,  no,"  was  the  unsteady  reply;  "I'm 
not  faint  now — I — I  think  it's  because  I  haven't 
had  any  breakfast  or  dinner." 

"Juste  del!"  said  Elsie,  who  had  a  polyglot 
vocabulary ;  "you  must  be  starving !  Mr.  Gotch, 
please  get  us  out  of  this  place  and  find  a  quick  way 
home.  What  is  your  name,  my  dear  ?" 

"Hero  Latimer,"  replied  the  other,  "but  I 
couldn't  think  of " 

Elsie  cut  into  the  foolish  proud  sentence. 

"Really,  Miss*  Latimer,"  she  declared,  "you 
musn't;  I  love  having  visitors.  Take  this  glass 
back,  Mr.  Gotch;  if  it  is  on  our  road,  take  us, 
too." 

Paul  gave  his  arm  to  the  dictatress;  he  had 
not  as  yet  looked  straight  at  Hero  for  as  much 
as  might  amount  to  one  whole  minute. 

"Now,  my  dear  child,"  said  Elsie,  when  Paul 
left  them  to  restore  the  stolen  article  and  to  tip 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS          109 

the  astonished  keeper — "you  are  a  child,  aren't 
you?" 

"I  am  nineteen,"  returned  Hero,  a  little  stiffly. 

"And  I'm  nineteen  hundred,"  retorted  Elsie — 
"when  you've  got  incipient  spinal  curvature,  days 
sometimes  count  a  million  to  the  dozen;  I'm  blind 
and  I'm  queer;  I  always  want  my  own  way,  and 
I  always  get  it;  I've  no  sisters  or  brother  or 
mother ;  only  a  father  and  Justine,  who  looks  after 
me.  But  she  is  out,  and  I've  got  a  darling  room 
of  my  own.  So  come  home  with  me  and  see  my 
cat  Tommie,  with  hair  as  long  as  mine,  and  tell 
me  your  troubles." 

Hero  Latimer  studied  the  strange  figure  beside 
her. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  began;  "it  all  sounds 
fearfully  miserable." 

"And  yet  I  am  not,"  retorted  Elsie,  obscurely ; 
"buvons,  mangeons,  chansons,  rions,  which  is  to 
say,  drink,  eat,  sing,  and  laugh ;  it's  no  good  mak- 
ing faces.  And  now  here's  Mr.  Gotch,  so  we'll 
soon  be  home.  Mr.  Gotch,  you  can  take  us  there 
in  a  cab?" 

"Please,"  besought  Hero,  but  Elsie  was  ada- 
mant, and  into  a  four-wheeler  they  got  as  soon 
as  they  had  passed  the  gates. 

Paul  studied  the  face  of  Hero  Latimer, — the 
blind  girl  sat  opposite  him  with  their  patient  by 
her.  His  lady  of  tragedy  had  eyes  of  a  gleaming, 
lucid  blue,  and  her  dark  hair  overshadowed  them 
on  brow  and  temples  with  a  feathery  cloud.  Her 


no  A    SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

countenance  was  at  once  sad  and  imperious,  deter- 
mined and  subdued.  Something  in  it  moved  him 
deeply. 

On  the  way  to  the  vicarage  he  heard  broken 
snatches  of  conversation,  audible  between  the  tor- 
menting rattle  of  the  conveyance.  They  gave 
him  occasional  glimpses  into  an  odd  feminine 
world. 

"I  was  really  doing  my  best/'  said  Hero,  who 
was  thawing  under  the  sunshine  of  Elsie's  dex- 
terous sympathies ;  "but  I  could  scarcely  see  for 
crying,  and  my  fingers  were  all  thumbs, 
that  cheap  kind  of  tulle  that  goes  as  limp  as  a 
rag  with  the  least  handling.  ...  I  would 
have  to  make  it  good  ...  of  course,  it  was 
silly — and  then  .  .  .  and  paid  me  off,  and 
I  felt  that  miserable !" 

"The  spiteful  cat!"  said  Elsie,  with  a  colloquial 
accuracy  that  Paul  had  not  given  her  credit  for. 

"So  I  went  to  be  beside  mother,"  pursued 
Hero,  lowering  her  voice — they  were  on  a  bit  of 
respectable  macadam  now ;  "and  what  with  being 
so  wretched  and  not  having  any  lunch  and  only 
a  drink  of  milk  for  my  breakfast " 

"Of  course,  dear,"  said  Elsie,  squeezing  the 
speaker* s  hand ;  "and  now  I'm  going  to  give  you 
something  awfully  tempting  to  eat,  and  you  shan't 
think  about  anything  but  being  petted  and  com- 
forted." 

They  made  a  curious  picture,  the  stunted  girl 
so  eager  and  fostering,  the  riper  woman  so  sullen 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  i  \  i 

and  restrained.  Yet  there  was  a  suggestion  of 
Teuton  strength  about  the  largely-moulded  lips 
and  chin  of  Hero  Latimer  that  was  lacking  in  I  he 
acuter  contours  of  Elsie's  face.  Mobility  \vas 
the  characteristic  of  the  one,  endurance  that  of 
the  other.  Also  into  Elsie's  face  there  stole  at 
times  a  nuance  of  expression,  bizarre  to  the  vergc 
of  madness;  in  Hero's  blue  eyes  there  dawned 
now  and  again  a  poignant  sympathy,  dovelike  and 
sweet.  Such  a  gleam  of  absolute,  pulsating  ten- 
derness fell  upon  Elsie's  crooked  shoulders.  Paul 
saw  it,  and  a  pang  of  covetousness  burned  at  his 
heart. 

Arrived  at  St.  Faith's,  he  paid  the  driver  of 
the  cab,  and  would  have  taken  his  departure,  but 
Elsie  stayed  him. 

"Come  and  have  some  tea,  Mr.  Gotch,"  she 
requested ;  "you  can  talk  to  Miss  Latimer  while  I 
go  and  coax  the  people  in  the  kitchen." 

Paul  ascended  to  the  upper  levels  of  the  vicar- 
age with  a  sense  of  inevitableness  tugging  at  his 
nerves.  A  few  days  ago  he  sat  looking  at  Hero 
Latimer,  ignorant  of  her  name,  her  character,  her 
occupation;  and  now  he  was  moving  beside  her, 
his  intuition  that  she  was  motherless  confirmed 
by  knowledge,  and  aware,  moreover,  that  she  was 
that  pathetic  being — a  finely-touched  woman-soul 
bitted  and  thonged  by  economic  slavery.  How 
quickly  he  had  strung  the  beads  of  evidence  to- 
gether ! — the  resolute  mouth  and  chin,  the  blue 
eyes,  alternating  timidity  and  dewy  calm,  the  re- 


ii2          A   SOX  OF  AUSTERITY 

vealing  sob,  "I  went  to  be  beside  mother." 
the  quick,  proud  "I  couldn't  think  of  it!" — he 
held  her  spirit  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

Palpitating  with  such  novel  thoughts,  he 
waited  alone  in  Elsie  Stuart's  jealously-guarded 
"den."  Hero  came  in  a  moment  or  two  after, 
hatless  and  deprived  of  her  jacket.  Elsie's  swift 
yet  varying  footsteps  paused  at  the  door  as  her 
guest  entered,  and  she  called  out  to  Paul  that  he 
was  not  to  let  Miss  Latimer  mope. 

Paul's  usual  insouciance  had  fled ;  he  could  only 
suggest  that  Hero  should  take  a  seat.  Miss  Lat- 
imer accepted  the  recommendation,  and  both 
promptly  became  dumb.  At  last  Hero  gave  her- 
self an  admonitory  shake — one  more  token  of  a 
halting  courage  and  a  determined  will. 

"I  think,  Mr.  Gotch,"  she  said  nervously,  "that 
I  have  seen  you  before."  At  the  word  memory 
stung  her,  but  her  mouth  set  bravely. 

"Pray  do  not  pain  yourself  with  the  recollec- 
tion," besought  Paul. 

"It — it  was  my  mother,"  added  Hero,  as  if  to 
justify  her  emotion. 

The  young  man  bent  his  head. 

"A  terrible  deprivation,"  he  said,  and  added, 
out  of  a  burning  desire  to  be  better  known  to  her : 
"yet  my  position  was  even  more  tragic,  because 
-I  can  not  grieve  as  you  can.  I  was  parting  from 
a  father  whose  only  child  was  born  in  a  work- 
house, a  man  who,  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
abandoned  his  wife  when  she  most  needed  his 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS          113 

help  and  protection — a  father  who  met  his  death 
because  he  came  two  thousand  miles  to  ask  a 
love  and  forgiveness  which  justice  withheld  from 
him.  It  would  have  been  less  hitter  to  have 
known  and  honored  him  all  my  life  and.  as  you 
do,  to  have  mourned  my  loss  unashamed." 

Hero  looked  at  him — interested  vet  puzzled  by 
the  fluent  self-revelation.  Lacking-  print  or  the 
pulpit,  it  roused  her  mute  personality  to  a  lurk- 
ing disdain.  Nevertheless,  she  was  attracted  by 
the  indefinable  masculine  distinction  which  had 
so  piqued  her. 

He  noted  her  silence,  translated  the  fractional 
variation  of  her  expression,  and  winced.  Unwit- 
tingly he  revenged  himself  upon  her. 

"A  beautiful  day,  is  it  not?"  he  inquired,  de- 
scending to  a  most  uncomplimentary  depth  of  the 
conventional. 

Hero's  lip  twitched  and  her  eyes  ran  over  with 
amusement ;  she  was  as  acute  as  he  was. 

"Days  depend  upon  other  things  than  the 
weather,  you  mean,"  he  said,  a  little  relentingly; 
"yet  we  have  to  be  very  miserable  not  to  be  the 
happier  for  a  spring  morning  or  an  autumn  after- 
noon with  a  clear  sky  overhead  and  the  frost  on 
the  grass.  Even  the  prince  of  pessimists  admit- 
ted that  it  is  a  pleasant  thing  for  the  eyes  to  be- 
hold the  sun." 

He  was  talking  beyond  the  prescribed  vapidi- 
ties of  the  tete-a-tete,  yet  he  could  not  help  it. 
The  fastidiousness  in  the  somewhat  classic  coun- 


ii4  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

tenance  galled  his  dominant  mental  qualities  into 
an  obstinate  appeal  for  revision  of  the  too  hasty 
judgment  passed  upon  them. 

Hero  was  equally  obstinate.  ''Suppose  you've 
no  time  to  think  of  such  things?"  she  said,  hit- 
ting the  bull's  eye  of  his  aesthetic  target. 

"You  are  right,"  he  remarked,  surrendering; 
"an  effective  margin  of  healthy  attention  is  neces- 
sary for  the  enjoyment  of  such  pleasures.  It  is, 
alas,  denied  to  most  in  the  struggle  for  existence." 

Hero  studied  the  author  of  this  concession. 
He  was  evidently  not  trying  to  be  clever,  his 
mouth  simply  opened,  and  a  type  of  English  she 
had  never  before  encountered  flowed  around  an 
idea  to  lend  it  a  vexatiously  adequate  garb  of 
speech.  Elsie  and  a  maid  with  the  tea-tray  saved 
Hero*  the  perplexing  task  of  a  provisional  judg- 
ment. 

The  blind  girl  was  a  most  assiduous  hostess, 
and  Hero  ate  heartily.  Under  the  stimulus  of 
the  meal  and  the  excitement  of  the  chatter,  the 
rose-leaf  tinge  warmed  her  pale  face  and  throbbed 
in  her  finger-tips :  she  had  firm,  small  hands ; 
Paul  indexed  them  as  yet  another  sign  of  char- 
acter. 

Hero  did  not  speak  often,  being  constrained 
and  shy,  but  she  kept  going  a  vigilant  analysis  of 
Elsie's  uncanny  cleverness  and  Paul's  masterful 
sincerity,  opening  her  eyes  at  the  unexpected 
ignorances  of  the  one  and  the  transient  humors 
of  the  other.  Both  were  overstrung,  Elsie  by  the 


THE  KING  OF  TERRORS  [15 

rarity  of  a  visitor  and  Paul  by  a  feveri.-h  hope  of 
extracting  from  those  blue  eyes  some  flicker  of 
predilection,  at  the  worst,  of  respect.  Even  the 
cultivated  intellect  remains  primeval — squinting 
toward  the  peacock. 

When  she  went  away  she  had  promised  Eisie 
to  repeat  her  visit.  The  blind  girl  pressed  for  a 
date. 

"I  can't  say  for  certain,"  urged  Hero ;  ''you 
see " 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  Elsie,  in  a  stage  aside; 
"you'll  be  rather  unsettled  for  a  bit,  won't  you? 
But  you  must  let  me  know  how  you  go  on,  dear ; 
I  shall  be  quite  worried  about  you." 

Hero  made  the  desired  engagement  hastily, 
surprised  to  find  that  Paul  insisted  upon  playing 
escort. 

They  parted,  these  two,  twice  so  strangely 
brought  together  by  Fate,  in  front  of  a  despondent 
house  in  a  mean  street. 

"Good-night,"  said  Hero;  "and  thank  you  for 
taking  so  much  trouble.  Please  thank  Miss 
Stuart  again  for  me." 

Paul  held  out  his  hand;  Hero  touched  it  .with 
a  vague  misgiving. 

"Good-night,"  he  answered;  "I — I  couldn't 
help  hearing  that  you  are  in  some  doubt  as  to  the 
future.  It  is  a  brutal  world  for  women — I  wish 
I  could  offer  to  help  you.  But  you  are  proud, 
and  we  are  strangers.  Yet  I,  too,  am  anxious 
for  you — you  were  not  made  to  buffet  with  the 


u6          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

laws  of  supply  and  demand.  I  could  wish  you 
a  very  sheltered  and  gracious  life.  Forgive  me 
for  saying  so  much.  Good-bye." 

He  watched  till  the  door  closed  behind  her. 
Some  moments  after  he  was  still  standing,  lost  in 
thought. 


CHAPTER    X 

A    MONOLOGUE   AND    SOME    IMPERTINENCES 

IT  would  have  been  well  for  Paul  Gotch  if  at 
this  juncture  he  could  have  taken  counsel  of  a 
woman.  Instead,  he  communed  with  his  own 
heart  and  with  the  night.  Over  the  trim  thresh- 
old of  Self,  Love  sprang,  and  fled,  carrying  its 
rosy  torch,  from  cavernous  strait  to  strait  of  per- 
sonality. And  to  that  gay  beacon  there  trooped 
a  m$l£e  of  quintessential  imaginations — fear,  jeal- 
ousy, solicitude,  conjecture,  hope  deferred,  ardor 
spurring  prudence,  homage  leading  passion  blind- 
fold ;  all  the  misty  faction  of  Romance  grew  lam- 
bent and  flashed  and  flickered  down  the  corridors 
of  thought.  The  man's  soul  tracked  them  in  a 
blinking  ecstasy. 

The  morning  dawned — a  regal  June  day — a 
First  Day.  A  dozen  bells  wagged  their  iron 
tongues  remotely — a  ripple  of  ordered  notes  be- 
tween from  the  north-west,  where  a  square  Nor- 
man tower  housed  an  ancient  peal.  The  city 
slumbered  in  the  sun;  its  indifference  fretted 
Paul's  exaltation.  He  donned  a  rumpled  cos- 
117 


ii8          'A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

tume,  consecrated  to  indolence,  and  walked  out 
into  the  clayfield. 

A  puny  butterfly — one  of  the  common  greenish- 
white  variety — was  drifting  hither  and  thither 
over  a  ragged  oasis  of  turf.  He  pondered  its 
erratic  flight. 

"As  a  caterpillar/'  he  said  to  it,  "you  crawled 
where  you  would,  in  reason,  and  doubtless  your 
Lilliput  wanderings  met  provender  enough. 
Your  wings  were  a  Greek  gift;  they  have  made 
you  the  sport  of  every  zephyr  that  lacks  a  toy. 
And  I  who  moralize  over  you  am  busy  unpacking 
my  pinions  to  wrestle  with  forces  no  less  mighty. 
My  chrysalis  has  burst,  too,  little  butterfly;  I  am 
in  love.  My  independence,  like  yours,  is  escheat 
to  Nature;  I  am  no  longer  a  philosophic  integer, 
I  am  a  discontented  decimal.  What  a  rout  of 
maimed  comparisons!  Adieu,  little  butterfly,  a 
sunny  third  act  to  your  trivial  drama  and — a 
quick  curtain." 

A  second  white  flake  danced  up,  and  the  two 
morsels  of  existence  fluttered  about  one  another. 

"Good  God!"  said  Paul,  with  a  sudden  fero- 
cious humor,  "may  it  not  be  that  atomy  number 
one  is  vowing  eternal  loyalty  to  atomy  number 
two,  and  atomy  number  two  is — credulous! 
Truly  Pythagoras  had  more  respect  for  the  spirit- 
ual than  to  surrender  nine-tenths  of  life  to  the 
automatic.  Reincarnations  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
immutable  heirs  of  mutability,  count  me  with 
Pythagoras,  and  wanton  unchallenged  by  a  brag- 


A  MONOLOGUE  119 

gart  materialism.  Are  not  the  heavens  propi- 
tious, is  not  the  air  calm? — he  loves  you,  testy 
demoiselle,  and  Time  is  very  short.  Coquette, 
coquette! — you  are  no  less  marvelous  than  the 
gray  matter  of  Plato's  brain,  your  death  no  less 
profound  a  tragedy  than  the  passing  of  Socrates." 

He  strolled  back  to  the  cottage  and  lunched 
with  his  mother.  As  soon  as  the  meal  was  over 
he  dressed  carefully  and  made  ready  to  go  out. 

"Are  you  going  across  to  Mr.  Stuart's?"  asked 
Mrs.  Gotch,  a  trifle  of  envy  pointing  the  interro- 
gation. 

Paul  laughed. 

"Not  this  journey,"  he  replied ;  "I  propose  call- 
ing on  a  new  acquaintance — I  don't  know  if  I 
shall  be  away  long  or  not." 

Mrs.  Gotch  took  to  the  lounge  and  a  book. 

Paul  set  off  alertly;  his  destination  was  no 
other  than  the  house  to  which  he  had,  on  the 
previous  day,  escorted  Hero  Latimer.  When, 
however,  he  had  turned  into  the  sordid  street — 
grubbily  decorous  in  its  Sunday  calm — his  limbs 
were  trembling  and  his  mouth  parched.  A  child 
ran  to  his  knock ;  he  asked  with  dry  lips  for  "Miss 
Latimer,"  and  his  pulses  halted. 

"I'll  tell  her,"  said  the  mite,  affably;  the  call- 
er's heart  beat  again. 

He  stepped  into  a  tawdry  parlor,  smelling  of 
furniture  polish  and  hereditary  chattels.  There 
were  indistinct  framed  photographs  and  colored 
"enlargements"  by  way  of  wall  decorations,  a 


120          A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

tinsel  cascade  bid  the  grate;  on  the  mantel,  glass 
shades  protected  unnatural  waxen  stacks  of  fruit 
and  flowers.  Paul's  spirits  steadied  themselves 
to  resist  the  doleful  influences  of  the  place. 

A  footfall  sounded  on  the  creaking  kitchen 
stair,  and  Hero  entered,  astonished  to  see  him. 
Paul  noticed  that  she  wore  a  black  silk  blouse 
and  a  skirt  of  an  odd,  girlish  type ;  they  lent  her 
a  youthful,  modern  aspect — in  her  ampler  mourn- 
ing garments  she  had  showed  singularly  classic 
and  mature. 

"You  will  be  surprised  at  this  visit,"  he  began 
confusedly. 

"Y-yes,"  admitted  Hero;  he  imagined  a  rebuke 
in  her  tone. 

"I — I  could  not  help  coming,"  pursued  Paul ; 
"I  have  been  thinking  about  you  all  last  night 
and  this  morning." 

He  paused,  but  was  given  no  assistance. 

"You  seemed  so  unhappy,"  he  murmured,  "it 
is  not  right  that  you  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  un- 
reasonable employers  or  of  unsuitable  friends." 

Hero  projected  a  repulse. 

"I  need  have  no  friends  that  I  don't  choose/* 
she  said.  Yet  her  face  softened  after  the  com- 
pleted speech — it  had  proved  more  discourteous 
in  the  implication  than  she  had  foreseen. 

"Unfortunately,  accident  makes  them  for  us," 
dissented  Paul ;  "it  is  very  natural  that  the  social- 
ly-handicapped who  have  been  generously  en- 
dowed with  personal  qualities  should  prefer  asso- 


A  MONOLOGUE  121 

ciation  with  those  beneath  them  in  character  and 
ability  to  a  temporarily  more  exacting  intercourse 
with  their  equals.  Progressive  deterioration  is 
inevitable  under  such  conditions.  'Let  noble 
minds  keep  ever  with  their  like/  said  Shake- 
speare's much-misunderstood  Polonius."  He 
checked  himself — the  retort  had  become  a  solilo- 
quy. 

"It  was  nice  of  you  to  come,"  said  Hero,  po- 
litely, "but  I  am  afraid  I  must  get  back  to  my 
work — you  see,  I  have  to  make  myself  useful." 

Paul  wrinkled  his  brow. 

"At  least,"  he  pleaded,  "let  me  say  why  I  have 
thus  intruded  upon  you."  He  got  a  chair  for 
her;  she  accepted  it  with  reluctance,  twirling  a 
slender  ornament  on  her  finger — he  stooped  and 
looked  at  the  trifle  daringly. 

"You  wear  a  ring,"  he  said,  and  breathed  hard; 
"Miss  Latimer,  forgive  my  asking  a  question 
which  means  to  me  more  than  I  can  say.  Is  that 
ring  a  pledge  of  affection?" 

Hero  chafed  visibly. 

"Oh,  I  have  no  right  to  put  such  a  question," 
he  cried ;  "I  am  unbearably  impertinent ;  but  you 
will  tell  me,  Miss  Latimer.  If — if  that  jewel  was 
given  you  by  a  friend  who  may  some  day  be  more 
than  a  friend,  I  will  ask  your  pardon  and  go  away, 
and  you  shall  never  see  me  again.  My  misery 
and  my  madness  will  be  nothing  to  you." 

Hero  stared  at  him  with  wide,  unbelieving  eyes 
—a  spasm  of  alarm  shook  their  clear  gaze. 


122          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"I  am  in  earnest,"  said  Paul  Gotch,  quivering- 
ly,  "absurd  as  I  may  appear  to  you,  I  am  in  such 
earnest  as  it  is  given  to  few  men  to  be.  If  I 
inquired  flippantly  or  without  respect,  you  would 
have  a  right  to  refuse  me  an  answer  or  to  evade 
the  question  with  an  easy  lie.  But  you  dare  not 
do  that — you  have  other  defenses  against  my  pre- 
sumption if  you  should  need  them.  There  are 
some  natures  that  may  speak  each  to  each  as 
readily  out  of  mystery  as  out  of  familiarity;  we 
are  what  would  be  called  strangers,  but  I  know 
more  of  your  soul  than  another  would  know  if 
he  had  spent  a  lifetime  with  you.  It  is  because  I 
have  seen  into  you  and  know  you,  that  you  will 
tell  me  who  gave  you  that  ring." 

The  girl  was  mastered  by  the  vibrating  sen- 
tences, and  touched — to  an  infinitesimal  degree — 
by  the  spasmodic  feeling  that  distorted  the  speak- 
er's face.  She  tried  to  smile,  but  wept  instead. 

"It  was  my  mother's,"  she  sobbed. 

Paul's  dynamic  intensity  passed  from  him  into 
space — he  fell  on  one  knee  beside  her. 

"Cruel!  cruel  that  I  was!"  he  ejaculated,  with 
an  extravagant  joy;  "forgive  me,  I — I  was  reck- 
less, foolish — the  poor  little  pearls !  I  should  have 
known." 

The  storm  of  tears  had  left  Hero's  cheeks  drip- 
ping as  a  poplar  drips  in  an  April  shower.  She 
sought  for  her  handkerchief,  found  none,  and 
blushed.  Paul  drew  from  his  breast-pocket  an 
immaculate  square — still  neatly  folded  as  he  had 


A  MONOLOGUE  123 

picked  it  tip — shook  it  out  with  amazing  self- 
possession  and  put  it  into  her  fingers. 

Hero  regarded  him  with  an  indignation  which 
verged  on  the  farcical,  but  at  this  point  the  tears 
overflowed  again.  In  her  embarrassment  she 
used  the  handkerchief.  Paul  availed  himself  of 
the  fact  to  proceed. 

"I  gathered  yesterday  that  you  are  mother- 
less," he  said,  "and  probably  also  fatherless.  You 
are  now  about  to  seek  for  fresh  employment  in 
your  occupation,  and,  unstimulated  by  your  moth- 
er's companionship,  to  mingle  with  your  intellect- 
ual inferiors  and  to  subside  insensibly  into  a  tol- 
eration of  their  incapacity  and  of  your  own  iner- 
tia. The  crisis  is,  you  will  admit,  a  momentous 
one,  and  that  alone  can  excuse  my  uninvited 
presence  here,  to  say  nothing  of  the  proposition 
I  am  about  to  make." 

Hero  was  listening,  behind  the  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. 

"I  am  a  man  of  four-and-twenty,"  continued 
Paul,  "with  a  fair  income  and  an  even  temper. 
These  are  the  sole  practical  inducements  that  I 
can  urge  on  behalf  of  my  request.  A  single  un- 
practical appeal  I  can  add  to  them — the  old  and 
hackneyed  one,  I — I  love  you." 

Hero  Latimer  shrank  to  the  limits  of  her  seat, 
dropping  the  handkerchief  precipitately.  Paul 
trembled. 

"I  have  been  a  quiet,  studious  sort  of  person 
all  my  life,"  he  said,  pleadingly;  "women  have 


124          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

been  to  me  merely  the  subjects  of  an  occasional 
trite  cynicism,  a  spurious  omniscience.  My 
father,  as  I  told  you,  deserted  my  mother  before 
I  was  born;  my  early  years  accustomed  me  to 
dispense  with  all  emotional  or  material  superflu- 
ities. A  week  or  two  ago  our  prodigal  came 
back — he  had  heard  of  me  and  was  drawn 
towards  me — I  sent  him  away,  doing  my  mother 
the  only  justice  I  could.  He  died  by  accident, 
trying  to  see  me  privately.  That  opened  my 
heart;  I  was  restless,  eager,  seeking  I  knew  not 
what.  In  such  a  moment  you  passed — tragic, 
black-robed,  pitiful — and  my  heart  closed  with 
your  image  in  it.  You  passed  again;  my  heart 
opened  again — your  image  faded,  and  my  heart 
cried  out  for  you — you  yourself,  who  will  not 
fade." 

"Indeed !"  interpolated  Hero,  stemming  the  tide 
of  fantasy.  The  dark  eyes  read  her  mind;  they 
dilaced,  shining  with  an  unearthly  dread. 

"Not  that,"  begged  the  man  at  her  feet,  cower- 
ing as  from  a  blow,  "not  that !"  A  little  time — 
only  a  little  time  before  you  say  it !  If  you  were 
near  a  drowning  man  and  he  called  to  you  for 
help,  you  might  not  be  able  to  give  it  to  him,  but 
you  would  not  put  out  your  soft  white  palm  to 
push  him  down — down  under  the  black  water. 
If  you  were  the  captain  of  a  firing-party  and  a 
poor  devil  of  a  spy  asked  you  for  a  moment — a 
moment  to  breathe  his  sweetheart's  name  and 
think  of  all  that  should  have  been — you  might 


A  MONOLOGUE  125 

cry,  'Ready,  present!' — you  dare  not  finish  it — 
you  dare  not !  Have  some  mercy ;  do  not  answer 
lightly.  I  have  had  such  thoughts — thoughts  of 
Eden  and  romance :  I  knew  why  God  made  man, 
I  forgave  Him  death." 

He  dragged  himself  up,  panting. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  stammered;  "I  think 
I  lost  myself  just  then." 

His  forehead  was  wet,  and  his  breast  heaving. 
Hero  studied  him,  fascinated,  overawed,  yet,  as 
he  had  said,  cold. 

"Of  course  you  are  right,"  he  gasped ;  "it  was 
a  mad  scheme,  but  I  meant  well.  I  want  you  to 
believe  that." 

"Oh,  I  do!  I  do!"  cried  Hero,  melting;  "I  am 
so  sorry,  but  really,  I  have  only  met  you  twice 
before." 

*  A  strident  query  interrupted  her,  penetrating 
from  below. 

"Hero  Latimer!"  demanded  a  voice — an  omi- 
nous, insolent  voice ;  "are  you  ever  going  to  finish 
these  dishes,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

Hero's  face  darkened;  the  eclipse  repeated 
itself  on  Paul's  countenance.  A  sense  of  desola- 
tion bowed  the  figure  in  the  silk  blouse. 

"Now  go,"  she  besought,  "or  I  shall  get  into 
trouble,  and  I  can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  them 
just  now.  They  are  not  bad  people,  truly,  they 
helped  my  mother." 

"May  I  not  see  you  again?"  said  Paul,  misera- 
bly. 


126          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Yes,  yes,"  consented  Hero;  "only  do  go  now." 

Paul  snatched  at  the  permission,  and  went; 
on  the  step  he  caught  a  reluctant  hand,  and  kissed 
it  burningly.  The  latch  snapped — a  disdainful, 
metallic  click — and  Hero  hurried  down-stairs. 

Once  again  Paul  lingered — nor  was  lie  the  first 
to  pluck  a  chilly  comfort  from  the  neighborhood 
of  an  inhospitable  threshold.  While  he  brooded, 
pacing  a  short  beat,  over  the  equivocal  interview 
which  had  so  abruptly  terminated,  a  door  banged 
and  some  one  ran  out  into  the  silent  thorough- 
fare. The  fugitive's  skirts  brushed  against  him 
— they  were  Hero's. 

"Mr.  Gotch!"  she  said. 

"I  was  going  in  a  moment"  mumbled  Paul. 

Hero  looked  at  him  closely.  "Why — why 
were  you  waiting  about?"  she  insisted.  Paul 
could  find  no  response  less  jejune  than  his  posi- 
tion, and  that  was  pregnant  with  the  ridiculous. 

"Listen,"  added  Hero  Latimer,  hysterically; 
"you  spoke  the  truth.  Such  people  aren't  fit  to 
live  with.  She  struck  me,  and — and  called  me 
hideous  names.  I  don't  love  you,  but  if  you  wish 
you  can  take  me  away.  I  don't  know  where  I 
was  going  when  I  came  out — to  do  something 
silly,  I  suppose." 

Paul  answered  soothingly,  collectedly. 

"You  shall  never  regret  your  confidence  in  me," 
he  said ;  "if  you  can  trust  yourself  to  go  back  for 
your  hat,  I  will  take  you  at  once  to  see  my 
mother." 


A  MONOLOGUE  127 

Hero  went  slowly  up  the  few  steps  and 
knocked.  A  response  was  not  forthcoming,  she 
waited  hopelessly;  angered  and  ashamed,  she 
returned  to  Paul.  "It's  no  good,"  she  said  vehe- 
mently; "I'm  locked  out." 

"Then,"  decided  her  new  guardian,  "we  wilt 
find  a  hansom." 

And  in  such  strange  fashion  did  Paul  Gotch 
bring  home  his  betrothed. 


CHAPTER   XI 

AN     IX  EFFECTIVE     DEMURRER 

PAUL  GOTCH  was  striding  over  the  clayfields 
towards  the  white  cottage,  humming  the  bluff 
chorus  of  the  "Yeoman's  Wedding."  The 
morning  air  fanned  him  exhilaratingly,  the  ruf- 
fling tarns  of  black  water  lent  it  a  sharp,  enig- 
matic flavor.  He  ascended  the  rubble  walk, 
gained  the  lobby  and  hung  up  his  hat. 

"Margaret,"  he  called  towards  the  back  of  the 
house;  "will  you  ask  my  mother  if  she  can  see 
me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Margaret,  coming  into  the 
passage ;  "she  is  in  the  parlor,  sir,  with  the  young 
lady." 

Margaret  spoke  with  wan  deliberation ;  a  sharp- 
toothed  devil  was  gnawing  at  her  pleasurable  re- 
gard of  him. 

Paul  went  into  his  own  room,  opened  the  win- 
dows, and  chirruped  to  the  canary.  Selina  Gotch 
came  behind  him ;  he  turned  and  kissed  her  boy- 
ishly. 

"How  is  the  little  woman?"  he  asked. 

"Having  her  breakfast,"  answered  Mrs.  Gotch, 
with  prosaic  accuracy. 

128 


AN  INEFFECTIVE  DEMURRER     129 

"I — I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  face  Stuart's 
smile,"  said  her  son;  "so  I  just  ran  clown  to  the 
North  Western ;  it  was  easier.  Besides,  I  wanted 
to  go  to  the  bank  this  morning/' 

He  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  extracted  a 
packet  of  notes. 

"Should  I  give  her  these  myself?"  he  inquired, 
with  some  disquietude,  "or  tell  her  you  will  see  to 
everything  of  that  sort?" 

"She  would  probably  like  it  better  from  you," 
was  Mrs.  Gotch's  grave  verdict.  Selina  was  very 
quiet  and  studiously  non-committal ;  Paul  felt  it. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  putting  a  hand  on  each  of 
her  thin  shoulders,  "you  are  good  to  her  for  my 
sake,  be  good  to  her  for  her  own." 

Selina  Gotch's  face  did  not  alter  its  calm  ex- 
pression. "She  is  a  nice,  lady-like  girl,"  was  her 
rejoinder ;  "we  shall  get  on  very  comfortably.  It 
is  you  who  are  taking  risks." 

"True,  oh,  queen,"  said  Paul,  gaily;  "nothing 
venture,  nothing  win.  Can  I  go  to  her  now?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  replied  his  mother;  "when  do 
you  want  it  to  be?" 

"As  soon  as  I  can  fix  things  up,"  said  Paul ; 
"we  shall  run  away  for  a  few  days,  come  back 
here  and  settle  down." 

"Here!"  repeated  Selina  Gotch;  "is  that  wise?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Paul;  "do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  leave  you  to  your  own  devices?  My 
dear  soul,  you  would  get  the  big  blue  hump." 

Mrs.  Gotch's  mouth  worked. 


130          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think  of  me,"  she  urged. 

"Rubbish!"  said  Paul;  "and  now  let  me  go  to 
my  pretty  captive." 

He  stepped  across  the  passage  and  entered  the 
other  living-apartment.  Hero  sat  over  her  meal, 
more  incongruously  youthful  than  ever  in  her 
loneliness.  Her  blue  eyes  were  limpid  with  tears. 

"Good-morning,"  remarked  her  visitor;  "may 
I  interrupt?" 

"Please  do,"  cried  Hero;  "I  am  glad  you've 
come." 

"Not  more  glad,"  said  Paul,  ardently,  "than  I 
am  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,"  objected  Miss  Lati- 
mer;  "I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  I  couldn't  go  back 
again ;  I  don't  think  I  want  to  be  married." 

Paul  was  stunned. 

"Of — of  course,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely ;  "you 
are  free — to  do  as  you  wish." 

"Oh,"  begged  Hero ;  "don't  look  like  that,  don't 
— you  make  me  hate  myself." 

"I  wouldn't  have  you  unhappy  for  the  world," 
said  Paul,  altering  his  demeanor,  if  anything, 
however,  for  the  worse;  "but  you  are  quite  sure 
that  you  desire  to  return  to  your — your  protect- 
ors?" 

"No,  I'm  not,"  flashed  out  Hero;  "I'm  not— 
I'm  too  selfish  and  too  comfortable ;  I  have  had  a 
nice  breakfast,  and  I  haven't  had  to  get  up  and 
drag  myself  down  to  the  shop;  I  shouldn't  mind 
stopping  in  the  least  if — if " 


AN  INEFFECTIVE  DEMURRER    131 

"If  it  wasn't  for  me,"  concluded  Paul,  wrung 
into  brutality. 

"Only   for  your  own   sake,   though,"   supple- 
mented Hero,  quickly;  "I  like  to  be  with  you,  you 
are     very     kind     and — and    interesting,    but 
shouldn't  make  you  happy,  really  I  shouldn't,  and 
it  is  wicked  of  me  to  think  of  staying." 

Paul  came  very  close  to  her. 

"Hero,"  he  said — "I  may  call  you  Hero,  may 
I  not?" 

"Yes,"  permitted  Hero,  sadly. 

"If  I  have  seemed  to  consider  exclusively  my 
own  point  of  view  in  this  matter,"  he  pursued, 
with  tremulous  sincerity,  "it  has,  I  trust,  been 
only  so  in  appearance.  I  cling  to  my  hold  over 
your  destiny  because  I  believe  that  it  is  the  best 
thing  for  you — for  your  inmost  being.  Those  ter- 
rible women  who  were  with  you  at  the  funeral, 
you  know  what  they  are  actually — coarse,  vulgar, 
rampant  in  emotion,  foul-tongued  in  anger,  fit 
mothers  of  the  low-browed,  unshaven,  taciturn 
populace.  Yet  their  daughters  are  at  times  what 
their  grandmothers  may  have  been — noble,  femi- 
nine, potential.  They  are  hectored  into  a  sullen 
conformity  to  their  sphere.  They  marry  boors — 
boors  of  broad  cloth  and  the  ledger,  boors  of 
corduroy  and  the  pick.  What  do  they  become? 
Envelopes  of  unlovely  flesh,  sealing  in  some  mo- 
ribund cell  a  microscopic  soul." 

Hero  shivered — with  Captain  Pistol's  as- 
tounded hostess  she  might  have  retorted,  "By  my 


132          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

troth,  these  are  very  bitter  words."  The  glowing 
mystery  of  Paul's  diction  lent  an  adventitious  hor- 
ror to  the  truth  which  she  perceived  dimly 
through  its  savage  phrases. 

"Whatever  were  to  happen  as  a  result  of  our 
marriage,''  added  Paul,  "you  shall  blame  me  for. 
And  I  will  comfort  myself  with  this,  that  if  my 
love  can  not  beget  love  in  you,  at  least  it  can  fence 
your  nobler  qualities  from  the  devastating  feet  of 
the  mob.  Even  if  you  should  grow  to  dislike  me 
it  will  take  a  little  time,  and  I  shall  enjoy  a  tran- 
sient happiness — not  that  I  will  force  myself 
upon  you  in  any  way ;  you  shall  not  be  able  to  dis- 
cover the  limits  of  my  humility  and  my  obedience. 
If  your  life  is  to  be  spoiled  I  had  rather  your 
path  led  to  the  cliff  of  tragedy  than  to  the  Slough 
of  Despond.  It  shall  lead  to  neither  if  I  can  help 
it ;  yet  which  risk  will  you  take,  that  of  the  catas- 
trophe or  the  quagmire  ?" 

"Oh,  if  you  will  never,  never  blame  me,  what- 
ever happens,"  cried  Hero,  "I — I  think  I  will 
stop." 

Paul  stooped,  drew  the  hoop  of  pearls  from  the 
speaker's  hand,  and  pushed  it  on  to  his  little  fin- 
ger. Then  he  took  another  ring  from  his  pocket 
— a  ring  contained  in  the  conventional  morocco 
case.  It  was  set  with  small  diamonds.  Hero 
permitted  him  to  slip  it  into  the  place  of  her 
mother's  jewel.  Her  eyes  shone — the  stones 
sparkled  so  translucently. 

"As  long  as  I  wear  your  ring,"  swore  Paul, 


'AN  INEFFECTIVE  DEMURRER    133 

solemnly,  "whether  you  wear  one  of  mine  or  not, 
I  will  never  judge  you  nor  think  ill  of  you." 

He  touched  her  drooping  brown  head. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  have  these  for  you," 
and  he  laid  the  notes  on  the  table ;  "you  will,  of 
course,  need  a  great  many  things.  In  a  few  days 
I  shall  have  made  all  arrangements.  Have  you 
ever  seen  London  ?" 

"Never,"  murmured  Hero,  a  gleam  of  interest 
lighting  up  her  expression. 

"Would  you  like  to  spend  a  few  days  there?" 
asked  Paul. 

Hero  gasped;  she  was  vis^a-vis  with  the  fu- 
ture. But  the  word  London  rang  magically  in 
her  ears. 

"Must  we  go  away?"  she  thought  it  consider- 
ate to  ask — London  sounded  synonymous  with 
extravagance. 

"Not  if  you  would  rather  stay,"  she  was  told. 

The  alternative  displeased  her  unpronounce- 
ably.  "It  will  cost  a  good  deal,"  she  ventured, 
meaning  the  London  journey. 

"Not  it,"  said  Paul ;  "then  we  will  go,  provid- 
ing you  do  not  change  your  mind.  I  will  ask  my 
friend  Mr.  Stuart,  the  vicar  of  St.  Faith's, — it 
was  his  daughter  you  met — to  marry  us.  Un- 
less you  would  like  some  other  form  of  ceremony. 
I  am  traditionally  a  Nonconformist,  but  Stuart 
is  such  a  congruous  hierophant — I  beg  your  par- 
don, I  meant  he  is  in  the  picture  where  such  things 


134  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

are  concerned.  Or  would  you  care  for  the  reg- 
istry office?" 

Hero  whispered  that  she  had  no  preference. 

"Then  Stuart  it  shall  be,"  decided  Paul ;  "good- 
bye for  the  present,  Hero,  and  remember,  you  may 
shun  me  if  you  choose,  hate  me  if  you  must,  but 
you  need  never  fear  me.  You  shall  control  me 
with  one  strand  of  a  spider's  thread." 

He  departed  without  offering  to  salute  her  by 
any  other  form  than  that  of  speech,  and  Hero 
abandoned  herself  to  tears.  The  thought  of  wed- 
lock served,  however,  to  set  her  eddying  mind  on 
fripperies.  She  picked  up  the  notes.  Not  that 
she  was  mercenary,  but  the  feminine  mind  cere- 
brates peculiarly. 

There  were  five  of  the  rustling  sheets  and  they 
were  for  ten  pounds  each.  Between  her  and  a 
certain  mean  house  in  a  dingy  street  a  mile  away 
a  gulf  had  opened ;  nor  was  there  in  the  situation 
on  her  side  any  of  those  elements  which  bridge 
even  such  abysses.  She  sat  down,  not  unhappy, 
and  began  to  meditate,  with  indubitable  consola- 
tion, the  genesis  of  her  trousseau. 


CHAPTER  XII 

A   BEJEUNER    AND    A    DEPARTURE 

"TOMMIE,"  said  Elsie  Stuart  to  the  silver- 
belled  Angora,  "I  am  very  happy  this  morning. 
Wake  up,  you  sleepy,  smiling  thing,  and  listen." 

With  which  admonition  she  shook  the  fluffy 
creature  till  it  whimpered  for  mercy,  whereat  its 
mistress  gathered  it  into  her  arms,  infant-fashion, 
and  hugged  it  maternally,  rocking  the  while. 

"Why  am  I  so  happy?"  she  continued,  answer- 
ing an  entirely  imaginary  question;  "because — 
oh,  because  there  are  some  delicious,  delicious 
flowers  from  my  fairy  prince,  and  because  Hero 
is  going  to  be  married  to  Mr.  Gotch.  So  I  shall 
have  two  of  the  nicest  friends  to  go  and  see  when 
Justine  and  Dearie  are  dull,  and  when  I  am  all  by 
myself — you  don't  count,  dear,  you  know — I  can 
dream  about  somebody  who  isn't  a  friend,  but  a 
wonderful,  beautiful  mystery." 

She  slid  the  Angora  into  her  lap,  bent  her  head, 
and  drew  a  long  breath.  A  cluster  of  carnations 
nodding  on  her  bosom  yielded  their  rapturous 
perfume.  The  cat  disentangled  his  lithe  limbs, 
sat  up,  and  proceeded,  with  one  agile  paw,  to 

135 


136          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

smooth  his  furry  countenance.  Elsie  diagnosed 
the  quaint  operation  and  laughed  out  suddenly. 

"Oh,  you  funny,  Jntinan  animal,"  she  cried,  and 
began  to  pet  it. 

"Mr.  Gotch,  Miss  Elsie,"  said  one  of  the  maids, 
showing  that  gentleman  in.  The  blind  girl  rose 
and  welcomed  him,  dropping  Tommie  to  the 
floor. 

"Good-morning,"  she  remarked ;  "Dearie's  not 
down  yet.  Isn't  it  impolite  of  him  to  ask  you  to 
breakfast  and  then  to  keep  you  waiting  for  it?" 

"I  am  early,  I  believe/'  protested  Paul;  "as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  have  been  up  for  hours.  To  be 
honest,  I  spent  several  of  them  watching  a  cer- 
tain little  house  on  the  clayfield ;  otherwise  I  was 
mortally  afraid  it  would  catch  fire,  be  whirled  into 
space  by  a  cyclone,  or  disappear  by  art  magic." 

The  other  clapped  her  hands. 

"How  lovely !"  she  said ;  "come  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

"There  is  no  more  to  tell,"  the  visitor  assured 
her,  sitting  dow^n. 

"And  you  really  are  madly  in  love  with  her," 
propounded  Elsie,  standing  in  front  of  him. 

"Insanely,"  owned  Paul. 

"It's  very  romantic,"  decided  the  blind  girl; 
"I  didn't  think  you  had  it  in  you — you  always 
seemed  so — so  sniffy.  But  I  like  you  for  it,  Mr. 
Gotch.  Dearie  says  you  are  a  drastic  antidote 
to  the  conventional,  which  sounds  as  though  it 


A  DEJEUNER  AND  A  DEPARTURE     137 

was  awfully  wise,  but  I  expect  it  isn't.  Is  Hero 
as  happy  as  you  are?" 

"I  hope-  so,"  was  the  reply. 

"I've  asked  her  two  or  three  times,"  confessed 
the  candid  psychologist,  "but  she  didn't  say  much. 
She  holds  herself  in  a  lot,  doesn't  she?" 

Paul  sighed  involuntarily;  the  suppressed  re- 
gret of  the  vocal  gesture  warned  Elsie's  sensi- 
tive sympathies  into  good  breeding.  She  took 
to  a  tangent. 

"Please  catch  Tommie  for  me,"  she  requested. 
Paul  set  about  capturing  the  reluctant  creature, 
on  the  heel  of  which  operation  the  vicar  entered, 
drowsy  but  cheerful.  The  British  breakfast  fol- 
lowed him,  Justine  appeared,  exquisitely  dec- 
orous, and  Paul  was  in  the  midst  of  his  last 
bachelor  meal. 

Patrick  Stuart  talked  about  the  weather  and 
the  war,  but  under  his  handsome  mustaches  a 
humorous  mouth  was  covertly  rallying  Paul. 
The  day  was  gloriously  bright,  the  ample  win- 
dows were  open,  and  the  exhilaration  of  the  sum- 
mer air  ended  by  moving  the  party  to  a  flow  of 
slight  jests  and  unreasoning  laughter. 

The  vicar  pledged  the  young  man's  future  in 
his  tea-cup. 

"Here's  to  the  Benedict  that  is  to  be,"  he  said, 
with  gentle  mockery.  "I  see  him  now,  no  more 
the  strenuous  philosopher,  the  rigid  censor  of  the 
times,  but  sleek,  contented,  epicurean :  I  see  sweet 
reasonableness  distilling  from  his  ink-pot,  con- 


138          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

servatism  budding  in  his  brain;  I  see  the  Incor- 
ruptible reconciled." 

Paul  had  no  wits  to  buckler  his  dignity,  but 
his  eyes  threatened  the  tormentor.  Elsie  helped 
him  out. 

"Dearie  knows  some  of  the  biggest,  ugliest 
words,"  she  interposed,  "that  were  ever  invented. 
And  nearly  all  of  them  have  pretty  little  stings  in 
their  long,  long  tails.  Don't  mind  him,  Mr. 
Gotch,  I  believe  you're  too  honest  ever  to  get  fat 
and  stupid,  which  is  what  Dearie  is  trying  to  say 
without  letting  you  be  quite  sure  he  means  it." 

Her  father  was  obviously  disconcerted  by  this 
audacious  flank  attack. 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Paul,  charitably  trans- 
posing the  conversation  into  a  different  key, 
"that  happiness  is  necessarily  stunting  to  the  finer 
qualities  ?  I  have  a  theory  that  it  develops  them, 
as  sunshine  brings  out  blossom." 

"Some  deserts  enjoy  perpetual  sunshine," 
slipped  in  Patrick  Stuart. 

The  aptness  of  the  retort  staggered  the  initi- 
ator of  the  comparison  thus  extended.  The  vicar 
surveyed  him  pleasurably ;  "I  am  always  caution- 
ing you  against  the  pit-falls  of  the  comparative 
method,"  he  added. 

"Grant  me  an  armistice,"  besought  Paul,  "I 
am  terribly  obtuse  this  morning.  If  I  had  even 
a  modicum  of  intelligence  I  should  try  to  develop 
the  thesis  that  great  happiness  is  more  stimulat- 
ing than  nourishing.  Properly  handled,  that  ar- 


A  D&E&NER  AND  A  DEPARTURE     139 

gument  ought  to  knock  the  bottom  out  of  your 
satire." 

"Great  happiness,  yes,"  allowed  his  opponent; 
"but  the  soul  of  marriage  is  mediocrity.  It  is  a 
huge  emotional  average-adjuster." 

"To  those  who  possess  the  capacity  for  acute 
happiness,"  objected  Paul,  rousing  himself,  "an 
average  portion  is  an  ultimate  tragedy.  And  as 
you  evidently  see  in  tragedy  the  ideal  mental 
stimulus,  that  ought  to  satisfy  you.  But  tragedy 
does  certainly  not  conduce  to  the  laying  on  of 
fat." 

"At  your  old  trick  again,"  said  Patrick  Stu- 
art, reprovingly — "tossing  with  a  double-headed 
shilling.  Either  way  I  lose." 

"The  dishonest  coin,"  Paul  told  him,  "was  as 
dishonestly  obtained :  I  picked  your  pocket  of  it." 

The  verbal  fusillade  had  stirred  the  blood  of 
both,  and  Justine's  urn  was  emptied  amid  a  lively 
continuation  of  the  debate.  Breakfast  over,  Paul 
fretted  aimlessly  in  the  library,  while  the  vicar 
wrote  sundry  letters  and  interviewed  a  curate. 
The  impatient  bridegroom  sat  down  with  a  book 
at  the  edge  of  the  curious  oratory  that  sprang 
from  a  truncated  corner  of  the  apartment.  It 
held  a  modest  altar,  a  Bible,  a  hassock  and  a 
crucifix.  There  were  faintly-tinted  panel  win- 
dows— leaden  trellis  and  diamond  panes — on 
each  side;  the  sunshine  pierced  them  dustily. 

Paul  looked  at  the  slender,  carven  figure  dang- 
ling shrunkenly  from  the  ebony  cross  in  that  grim 


140          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

death-throe,  whose  stiff  familiarity  has  so  long 
since  blunted  its  appeal.  In  his  nervous  state  it 
smote  him  newly.  The  Bible  beneath  it  was  gilt- 
edged  and  luxurious,  boasting  an  embroidered 
marker. 

The  vicar  and  the  curate  were  chattering,  with 
curt  mutual  comprehension,  of  various  sick  and 
needy  in  their  cure  of  souls.  Two  kindly  Chris- 
tian gentlemen,  the  bland  superficiality  of  their 
religious  thought  ceased  to  offend  the  critical  on- 
looker ;  the  oratory  and  its  contents  seemed  justi- 
fied by  their  philanthropy.  The  old  and  peaceful 
atmosphere  of  the  Church,  the  Church  pastoral, 
the  Church  consoling,  the  Church  soporific,  drew 
about  him.  Was  he  not  himself  a  witness  to  its 
omnipresence?  had  he  not  chosen  it  to  register 
his  alliance  with  the  woman  he  loved,  to  lend  that 
dubitable  union  a  dignified  formality  in  the  sight 
of  the  world  ? 

Abruptly  he  noticed  that  one  of  the  French  win- 
dows on  the  same  side  as  the  oratory  stood  ajar. 
Behind  it  was  the  poplar  plantation,  swaying  in 
the  doubtful  breeze;  beyond  and  above  these 
plumy  saplings  rose  the  vast  arch  of  the  Other- 
where, infinitely  blue.  And  in  it  hung  the  pallid 
cobweb  of  a  daylight  moon,  suggesting,  with  an 
edge  of  serrated  shadow,  the  dread  realities  of 
the  material  universe.  He  knew  something  of 
astronomy;  that  terrific  desolation,  so  extrava- 
gant, yet  so  concrete,  struck  him  cold.  He  got 


A  D&E&NER  AND  A  DEPARTURE    141 

up  and  walked  through  the  open  window  into  the 
green  enclosure  of  St.  Faith's. 

From  the  low  boundary-wall  at  its  southern 
side  he  could  see  along  the  narrow  cinder-path 
that  ran  eastward  to  the  cottage  in  the  brick- 
field. A  wisp  of  filmy  smoke  was  lingering 
about  its  chimney-stack.  There  also  breakfast 
had  by  now  been  cooked  and  eaten;  soon  Hero 
would  come  to  him  down  that  same  prosaic  ave- 
nue, "as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband."  He 
laughed  aloud  awkwardly,  then  blushed  to  hear 
his  voice  in  that  revealing  sound. 

Hero  had  indeed  breakfasted,  and,  dressed  in 
her  wedding-garments,  sat  waiting  for  Mrs. 
Gotch.  She  wore  a  gray  frock  with  white  rib- 
bons and  a  big  and  feathered  hat  of  the  first-named 
hue.  Her  gloves  were  just  being  coaxed  into 
their  place.  The  last  button  fastened,  she  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap  and  abandoned  herself  to  re- 
flection. As  the  thoughts  gathered  and  grew 
the  moisture  gathered  and  grew  in  Hero's  eyes. 
Presently  the  tears  were  running  in  good  earnest. 

Selina  Gotch  came  down-stairs  to  find  her  pros- 
pective daughter-in-law  sobbing  pathetically.  At 
the  sight  Selina's  practicality  rose  in  arms. 

"My  dear  Hero,"  she  said,  with  incisive  point, 
"if  you  are  going  to  be  made  miserable  by  this 
marriage  it  shall  not  take  place.  I  have  all  along 
tried  to  remember  that  it  was  not  my  business, 
but  Paul  knows  exactly  what  I  think  of  it." 


142  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

The  fountain  of  Hero's  grief  dried  up.  She 
put  her  damp  little  handkerchief  in  her  pocket. 

"I  am  quite  sensible  now,"  she  returned,  sim- 
ply, and  ignoring  Mrs.  Gotch's  proposition;  "I 
fancy  it  was  with  feeling  all  alone  in  the  world, 
just  for  a  moment.  If  you  don't  mind,  please, 
I'll  run  and  sponge  my  face." 

Selina  Gotch  signified  her  approval  of  this 
course,  and  herself  took  a  seat  in  her  son's  chair 
beside  the  round  oak  table.  A  thick  manuscript 
lay  in  front  of  her,  divided  at  a  particular  page 
by  an  inserted  penstalk.  Instinctively  she  picked 
up  the  latter  and  went  on  with  the  familiar  task 
of  touching  the  rough  masculine  scrawl  into  legi- 
bility. Unexpectedly  she  relinquished  it  and  be- 
gan to  don  her  neat  brown  gloves;  she  had  con- 
sidered, distastefully,  that  Hero  might  also  usurp 
this  one  of  her  functions. 

The  younger  woman  returned  almost  jocund; 
her  pride  had  been  whipping  her  ingenuousness ; 
her  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  bearing  defiant. 

"I  am  ready  now,"  she  volunteered,  and  the 
two  left  the  cottage,  threaded  the  walk  between 
the  daisy-beds,  and  gained  the  cinder-path. 

Mrs.  Gotch  advanced  with  a  vigorous  and 
elastic  step;  despite  her  years,  "her  eye  was  not 
dimmed  nor  her  natural  force  abated."  Her  dour 
virility  contrasted  strangely  writh  the  tender  youth 
of  the  drooping  girl  beside  her.  Selina  Gotch 
was  power  in  demonstration,  her  companion, 
power  concealed.  One  was  gray  with  the  gray 


A  DEJEUNER  AND  A  DEPARTURE     143 

of  the  sword-blade,  the  other  ruddy  with  the  faint 
rose  of  smothered  embers.  Yet,  blown  into  life, 
the  embers  might  have  conquered  the  steel. 

Paul  saw  the  oddly-sorted  pair  as  they  pro- 
gressed towards  him.  Upon  that  path  he  had 
followed  his  father's  coffin — his  father,  whose 
cynical  lips  had  prophesied  to  his  wife  the  in- 
justices of  her  son's  inevitable  amour.  It  seemed 
only  yesterday,  and  here  she  came — the  One  Wo- 
man— mastered  by  a  will  his  mother  had  resisted, 
enforced  by  a  love  his  mother's  devotion  had  not 
skilled  to  win,  came  to  put  her  hand  in  his,  to 
plight  him  her  innocent  troth,  to  crown  the  cup 
of  life  with  the  champagne  of  self-fulfillment. 

He  marched  into  the  vicarage  and  summoned 
Patrick  Stuart. 

"If  I  am  to  meet  my  bride  at  the  altar,  most 
amiable  hierophant,"  he  told  the  vicar,  "you  will 
have  to  hurry,  for  they  are  coming  up  the  cinder- 
path,  and  my  mother,  I  will  be  bound,  is  quite 
ignorant  of  the  ecclesiastical  proprieties." 

Patrick  Stuart  laughed  good-temperedly  and 
took  him  across  to  the  vestry.  Matins  was  just 
over;  the  officiating  curate  met  them  on  his  way 
out.  The  vicar  asked  him  to  have  the  south 
transept  entrance  opened  and  the  west  door  closed 
for  half  an  hour.  As  a  rule,  St.  Faith's  stood  un- 
closed during  the  day,  year  in,  year  out. 

"Got  any  one  to  give  the  bride  away?"  de- 
manded Patrick  Stuart,  practically. 

"Good  heavens,  no !"  said  Paul. 


144          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

"Better  requisition  Manners,  then,"  advised 
the  vicar;  "he'll  do  it  more  artistically  than  the 
verger." 

The  neglectful  bridegroom  ran  after  the  gaunt 
young  Oxford  graduate.  That  genial  person  re- 
turned with  him,  and  the  three  proceeded  into 
the  nave.  Elsie  was  already  there,  so  was  her 
guardian  Justine,  the  latter  according  to  her  wont, 
reservedly  amused.  Airs.  Gotch  and  Hero  had 
that  moment  reached  the  incense-laden  interior 
of  the  church.  Seeing  them  the  vicar  went  to  his 
place,  Paul  strode  to  the  chancel  steps,  Mrs. 
Gotch  beat  a  retreat  to  a  convenient  pew,  and 
Hero  was  left  alone. 

On  the  instant  her  nerves  grew  tense,  her 
pulses  drummed  in  her  ears,  her  limbs  turned  to 
lead.  In  all  the  world  there  seemed  but  one 
thing — the  figure  of  Paul  Gotch.  With  difficulty 
she  moved  towards  it;  Patrick  Stuart  had  re- 
course to  his  book,  and  the  marriage  of  Hero  Lat- 
imer  began. 

Paul's  gaze  devoured  her  expression;  it  told 
him  little,  yet  that  little  stabbed  him  to  the  quick. 
There  came  again  into  the  face  of  Hero  Latimer 
that  look  of  blind  endurance  which  had  possessed 
it  when  first  he  saw  her.  Again  the  tremulous 
carmine  fluttered  under  the  delicate  skin,  again 
the  young  breast  rose  and  fell  in  those  short,  pite- 
ous sighs,  the  more  piteous  for  being,  as  they  are, 
inaudible.  He  felt  as  one  may  feel  who  holds  a 
small  wild  bird  in  his  hand  and  wonders  if  its 


A  DEJEUNER  AND  A  DEPARTURE     145 

tiny  heart  will  burst  beneath  the  hammer-stroke-. 
thumping  in  his  palm.  Vet  every  word  of  the 
musical  sentences  read  by  Patrick  Stuart  sounded 
distinctly  in  his  ears.  A  thousand  high  emotions 
took  shape  and  beauty  in  his  swift  brain  as  it  spun 
them  about  an  image  of  the  sweet,  sad  womanli- 
ness before  him.  He  felt  no  shame  that  he  had 
so  bound  her  to  him,  only  a  fierce  daring  and  con- 
fidence in  his  power  to  mold  the  future  into  a 
justification  of  what  he  was  doing. 

As  in  a  dream  they  went  through  the  time- 
honored  ritual,  Paul  with  a  sense  of  sardonic 
humor — keen  almost  to  bitterness — lurking  in  a 
corner  of  his  spirit.  However,  tactfully  prompt- 
ed in  due  season  by  the  vicar,  he  bent  his  proud 
head  and  knelt,  half-ashamed,  half-contemptuous, 
moved  somewhat  by  imaginative  sympathy. 
Hero,  on  her  part,  did  not  falter.  She  might 
have  been  a  perfectly-tutored  young  aristocrat 
at  a  marriage  of  convenience.  Paul  admired  her, 
secretly. 

The  numb  perceptions  of  both  responded 
vaguely  to  the  succeeding  formalities — the  vicar's 
congratulations,  Mrs.  Gotch's  kiss,  Elsie's  de- 
lighted interest,  the  signing  of  the  register.  Aft- 
erwards Paul  knew  that  his  mother's  eyes  had 
pitied  and  reproached  him,  that  Patrick  Stuart 
had  sighed  apprehensively,  that  Hero's  cheek  had 
been  very,  very  cold.  But  at  the  moment  his 
head  swam :  he  was  to  himself,  if  not  to  outward 
appearance,  an  automaton. 


146  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

When  they  drove  away  in  the  hired  brougham 
neither  spoke.  Once  their  glances  met;  Hero's 
limpid,  passive,  enigmatic ;  Paul's  evasive,  even 
sorrowful.  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it. 
So  they  reached  the  station. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    CONSENT    OF    THE    CAPTIVE 

.ABOUT  these  two,  so  inexperienced,  so  diversely 
strenuous,  London  closed  its  great  arms,  and, 
like  mirrors  in  a  suddenly-peopled  room,  their 
souls  thronged  with  contesting  life,  their  own  and 
yet  not  theirs.  Metropolises  are  the  ganglia 
upon  the  nerves  of  history ;  the  thrills  of  forgotten 
national  emotions  linger  in  them ;  they  are  sympa- 
thetic one  with  another.  All  the  capitals  of  the 
world  are  within  arm's-length  each  of  each,  the 
provinces  are  hyperborean. 

In  some  respects  this  is  disadvantageous ;  it  dis- 
torts the  proportions  of  society  and  exaggerates 
the  value  of  the  arts.  But  it  lends  itself  largely 
to  the  perception  of  types.  Hero  felt  the  latter 
fact,  with  a  species  of  instant  elation ;  she  was  not 
to  be  classified  and  she  knew  it,  hence  the  charm 
of  classifying  others;  individuality  is  a  notable 
relish. 

Types  crowded  here  on  every  hand,  victualed 
themselves  in  her  sight,  neighbored  her  at  the 
play,  passed  her  in  the  corridors  of  the  huge  ho- 
tel. A  new  passion,  that  of  observation,  sharp- 

H7 


148          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

ened  her  interest  in  living.  Every  'ocracy  grew 
definite,  their  skyey  sections  ceased  to  overawe 
her ;  she  ended  by  contemning  Bond  Street.  All 
this  in  a  week ! 

Paul  bridled  himself  vigilantly ;  her  wits  peeped 
out  of  their  seclusion  as  mice  from  their  holes; 
sometimes  he  dared  scarcely  breathe  lest  he  startle 
her  into  self-consciousness  and  suppression.  His 
delight  in  her  opening  personality  became  acute. 

Slowly  her  renaissance  ripened  into  speech ;  cer- 
tain subtle  chivalries  drugging  her  fears,  she  for- 
got herself;  London  annihilated  her  habit  of  in- 
trospection— she  became  communicative.  Paul 
collected  fragments  of  biography. 

Her  mother  had  been  possessed  by  a  curious 
religious  fervor.  Churchwoman  though  she  had 
been  by  birth  and  training,  she  had  imbibed  the 
extravagant  doctrine  of  the  Faith  Healers ;  some- 
what of  Hero's  habitual  gravity  was  thus  ac- 
counted for.  But  the  excess  of  spirituality  that 
had  warped  Frances  Latimer's  sanity  had  not 
controlled  her  daughter's  intellect. 

"I  used  to  wish  sometimes,"  said  Hero,  som- 
berly, "that  mother  had  never  seen  a  church  or  a 
Bible.  She  was  very,  very  kind,  and  happy,  I 
suppose.  But  she  forced  herself  to  be  certain 
about  things  no  one  can  be  certain  of,  and  some- 
times when  she  realized  that  deep  down  in  herself 
she  wasn't  certain,  she  got  so  miserable  that  I 
hated  religion." 

"Things    no   one   can   be   certain  of!"     The 


149 

calmly-uttered  phrase  startled  Paul.  Its  modest 
yet  uncompromising  intelligence  was  doubtless 
characteristic,  but  it  came  oddly  from  the  soft 
feminine  lips.  Reticent  and  uncultured  as  was 
his  little  consort,  the  glimpse  of  agnosticism 
served  to  show  the  philosophic  bent  of  her  facul- 
ties. 

Not  that  there  was  anything  austere  in  her  out- 
look upon  the  teeming  humanities  of  the  modern 
Babylon  into  which  she  had  been  tossed.  Such 
trifles  as  set  her  aglow  with  humorous  sympathy ! 
— a  screeching  newsboy  with  a  wild  mispronunci- 
ation, an  unctiously  attentive  waiter,  a  caricature 
combination  of  hat-brim  and  monocle,  a  confiden- 
tial bus-driver,  the  size  of  a  constable's  inhibitory 
palm  at  a  crowded  crossing — comedy  set  her 
quivering  in  an  instant. 

Her  appreciation  of  the  "lions"  was  erratic. 
Ecclesiastical  architecture  left  her  cold,  the  Law 
Courts  fascinated  and  Westminster  disappointed 
her;  her  conception  of  Parliament  had  been  me- 
diseval,  the  real  thing  proved  dingy.  A  glimpse 
of  the  Terrace  interested  her,  however ;  she  won- 
dered what  the  waitresses  thought  of  the  M.P.'s. 
The  City  terrified  her — yet  not  unpleasantly,  as 
It  seemed.  From  the  top  of  a  'bus  she  studied  the 
countenances  of  the  thronging  money-makers. 

"How  awful  it  would  be  to  work  for  these 
men!"  she  whispered;  "they  have  cruel  faces." 


150          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

Paul  murmured  that  happily  she  was  not  likely 
to  have  to.  Hero  looked  at  him  suddenly. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  that,"  she  told  him,  "I 
shouldn't  dare  to  feel  how  cruel  they  are." 

Something  in  the  confession  warmed  her  hus- 
band's heart. 

One  day  they  went  to  Kew,  found  their  wray 
into  the  sub-tropical  palm-house,  and  climbed  to 
the  gallery  that  runs  round  the  dome.  The  house 
was  deserted,  the  gallery  empty  even  of  the  child- 
ish explorers  who  form  the  bulk  of  its  patrons. 
At  an  angle  they  paused,  leaned  upon  the  railing, 
and  gazed  at  the  luxuriant  greenery.  Beneath 
them  was  a  huge  tree-fern — a  vast  and  symmet- 
rical cup  of  overlapping  fronds. 

"I  came  through  here  often,"  said  Paul,  "be- 
fore I  discovered  the  existence  of  this  gallery. 
Then  for  the  first  time  I  looked  into  the  heart  of 
that  great  fern  you  see  below.  I  wonder  if  there 
is  any  way  in  which  I  could  command  as  enlight- 
ening a  view  of  yours." 

Hero  shook  her  head — it  was  a  pretty  head, 
shapely  and  fine,  large,  yet  counterfeiting  deli- 
cacy. 

"I  am  like  a  sick  man  by  the  pool  of  Bethesda," 
added  her  husband,  fantastically;  "waiting  from 
day  to  day  for  the  troubling  of  the  waters.  Your 
heart,  Hero,  is  a  placid  lake ;  it  has  depths,  but  it 
would  not  avail  me  to  plumb  them  now — it  could 
only  aggravate  my  disease.  Will  the  hour  ever 
come  when  its  currents  will  set  towards  me,  when 


THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  CAPTIVE     151 

its  waves  will  leap  my  way,  when  the  winds  that 
stir  it  will  blow  upon  my  fever,  when  I  shall  leap 
in  and  be  healed?" 

Hero  lifted  her  head  and  considered  this  rhap- 
sodic simile;  her  lips  were  scarlet  and  a  little 
pouted,  her  regard  gentle  yet  perplexed. 

"I  ask  myself  sometimes,"  said  Paul,  "why 
Fate  should  have  joined  our  lives  in  so  ironical 
a  knot — why  you  should  be  so  much  to  me,  I  so 
little  to  you." 

His  wife  drew  a  compassionate  breath. 

"And  yet,"  added  the  soliloquist,  "as  often  as 
I  ask  myself  the  question,  I  am  compelled  to  admit 
that  I  would  not  have  had  it  differently.  What- 
ever Destiny  holds  in  store  for  you  and  me.  Hero, 
I  can  not  deny  that  my  wooing  has  been  sweet — 
is  sweet.  Since  I  met  you  I  have  had  a  lingering 
pain  at  my  heart  which  has  become  familiar,  even 
pleasant.  If  I  lost  it — though  in  the  shock  of 
some  great  happiness — I  think  I  should  miss  it." 

Hero's  gloved  fingers  were  plucking  at  a 
creeper  that  trailed  against  the  railing. 

"I  feel,"  continued  Paul,  "as  if  love  recipro- 
cated were  bound  to  prove  mortal,  and  as  if  I,  by 
being  defeated,  had  escaped  defeat.  Why  should 
one  withhold  any  price  which  might  eke  love  out 
to  the  end  of  this  life,  perhaps  beyond  ?" 

He  also  began  to  pluck  at  the  creeper,  speaking 
covertly  to  her. 

"I  love  you,  Hero,  and  I  shall  love  you  always, 
whether  you  learn  to  love  me  or  not.  You  may 


152          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

not  easily  forgive  me  for  urging  you  to  decide 
between  the  precipice  and  the  quagmire — what 
if  I  have  myself  mistaken  the  roads!  When  we 
were  married,  my  mother's  eyes  pitied  us,  and 
some  women  have  the  gift  of  prophecy.  I  have 
had  horrible  dreams,  lately,  Hero — dreams  about 
you  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  myself ;  I  have  known  those 
shadowy  paths  where  the  Future  treads  on  one's 
heels,  pursuing,  pursuing,  faster  and  faster,  and 
one  leaps  into  consciousness  and  the  Present,  with 
madness  ebbing  about  one's  heart." 

She  glanced  at  him,  herself  vibrating  with  his 
bizarre  emotion.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 

"You  are  the  only  Woman  to  me,  Hero,"  he 
said;  "a  threadbare  oath,  but  sometimes  a  true 
one.  Think  what  the  Only  Flower  would  be, 
what  the  Only  Meadow,  what  the  Only  Sea-shore, 
and  realize  what  the  Only  Woman  is  to  the  eyes 
that  have  chosen  her." 

Hero  made  a  little  moan — pitiful,  protesting. 
"Oh,  I  know!  I  know!"  she  cried.  Then  they 
were  silent. 

Descending  from  the  gallery  they  walked  in 
the  long  vista  of  greensward  which  skirts  the 
palm-houses.  The  goodly  panorama  was  still 
•  foreign  to  the  sight  of  these  provincials  from  the 
austere  North ;  they  felt  as  if  they  were  manikins 
in  a  painting.  Groups  of  domesticity  were 
planted  on  the  edge  of  copses;  here  and  there  a 
brace  of  lounging  lovers.  The  rattle  of  the  tea- 
drinkers  came  across  from  the  pavilion;  they 


THE  CONSENT  OP  THE  CAPTIVE     153 

readied  it  and  shared  a  pot  at  one  of  the  small 
tables. 

Hero  began  to  feed  an  itinerant  peacock.  The 
process  attracted  a  tiny  child,  all  lustron-  yellow 
curls,  starched  laces,  and  pink  sash.  The  mite 
came  up  and  stood  gravely,  her  small  dimpled 
hands  behind  her  back.  Paul  marveled  at  the  ex- 
quisite fragility  of  the  little  creature,  its  rose-leaf 
complexion,  stippled  with  brown,  its  velvet  lashes, 
its  demure,  meditative  mouth. 

His  wife  put  out  her  hand  and  coaxed  it  to 
her.  Together  they  supplied  the  ravenous  fowl 
— woman  and  child  lost  in  their  occupation.  The 
dark  head  and  the  golden  one  were  close  together, 
both  very  pure,  very  delicate,  poignantly  appeal- 
ing. A  lump  rose  in  the  man's  throat.  The  next 
moment  the  bird  had  stalked  on,  the  child  had 
run  back  to  its  guardian,  and  Hero  was  brushing 
the  crumbs  from  her  gown. 

When  they  left  the  Gardens,  evening  and  after- 
noon were,  like  Shakespeare's  night  and  morning, 
at  odds  which  was  which.  A  line  of  brakes  was 
drawn  up  in  the  roadway,  clamorously  soliciting 
custom.  Paul  Gotch  picked  out  a  couple  of  box- 
seats  and  helped  Hero  to  one  of  them.  Soon  they 
were  bowling  eastward  through  the  waning  day. 
Paul  wished  the  journey  might  last  forever,  so 
gallantly  did  the  fresh  team  beat  a  flying  tattoo 
upon  the  macadam,  so  cheerfully  the  four  wheels 
rasped  and  swung.  A  soft  shoulder  rested 
against  his,  a  vagrant  curl  slipped  from  its  pins 


154          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

to  caress  his  cheek.  He  could  watch  at  his  leisure 
a  proud  little  nose,  and  those  pale  drooping  lids, 
whose  expanse  of  veined  white  over  the  full  pupils 
had  made  memorable  his  first  glance  at  their 
owner. 

In  Picadilly  Circus  they  took  a  hansom  to  Fras- 
cati's.  Hero  looked  at  the  swarming  streets,  the 
gathering  lights,  the  scurrying  night-cabs.  Her 
breast  heaved  with  a  sudden  excitement;  there 
are  moments  when  London  intoxicates.  Far  off, 
through  a  tunnel  of  black  darkness,  she  seemed 
to  see  a  swift  procession  of  pictures — a  mean 
street  in  a  Liverpool  suburb,  a  bare  work-room  in 
the  shopping-quarter,  a  weary  "improver"  weep- 
ing for  a  spoiled  length  of  tulle,  a  lonely  grave 
in  a  desolate  burying-ground.  That  was  once 
her  all.  Now  she  was  come  indisputably  into  her 
kingdom ;  she  had  a  lover — a  passionate,  worship- 
ing lover,  held  in  bondage  by  the  invisible  cords 
of  her  womanhood,  and  hanging  upon  her  lips 
for  the  very  breath  of  life.  He  had  made  her  ex- 
istence a  thing  eager,  colorful,  rapid,  of  endless 
potentiality.  All  this  he  had  done,  and  had  re- 
mained, to  the  point  of  desperation,  humble. 
Nevertheless,  she  estimated  him  highly,  not  intent 
upon  depreciating  her  own  feminine  prowess. 
She  was  a  woman;  she  had  become,  as  every 
woman  may,  a  queen.  Outside,  London  swirled 
by  her  radiant,  wide-spreading,  ecstatic — she  felt 
herself  enthroned,  the  beggar-maid  turned  em- 
press. 


THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  CAPTIVE     155 

They  dined  in  a  corner  of  the  balcony,  not  too 
near  the  band.  Hero  enjoyed  her  meal.  Pau! 
reminded  her  of  the  first  one  they  had  taken  to- 
gether and  of  the  difficult  conversation  that  had 
preceded  it. 

"I  am  afraid  you  didn't  approve  of  me  a  bit," 
he  said. 

Hero  blushed.  "I  was  very  hungry,"  she  re- 
marked, apologetically;  "I  am  always  cross  when 
I  am  hungry.  Was  I  awfully  impertinent  ?" 

"You  were  not  impertinent  at  all,"  her  husband 
protested;  "the  impertinence  was  mine.  I  read 
your  thoughts;  the  crime  and  the  punishment 
were  one.  There  is  a  cruel  little  story  about  a 
Runic  ring  that  gave  its  possessor  the  power  of 
seeing  thoughts  as  thin  flames  about  people's 
heads,  and  of  reading  in  that  manner  what  was 
going  on  in  their  brains.  The  ring  had  a  motto 
— a  hideous,  truthful  motto — this  was  it:  'An 
open  door,  an  open  heart,  a  naked  sword.' ' 

His  wife  crimsoned.  "I  am  sure  if  you  could 
read  my  thoughts,"  she  told  him,  "you  wouldn't 
find  anything  half  so  terrible." 

"How  unlucky  I  am,"  said  Paul;  "I  didn't 
mean  that  at  all,  though  it  did  seem  rather  like 
it,  I  own.  I  know  you  could  think  nothing — 
even  of  me — that  was  not  kindness  itself;  and 
that  is  much  more  than  I  have  any  right  to  ask." 

"Why.  do  you  always  end  with  that  sort  of  re- 
mark?" she  inquired. 


156          'A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  her  husband;  "what 
sort?" 

"Those  that  always  sound  as  though  you  were 
making  believe  to  be  very  humble,"  Hero  told 
him  daringly;  "you're  not  really  humble,  are 
you?" 

The  black  eyes  flashed.  "Not  in  the  least," 
he  replied;  "I  should  have  known  better  than  to 
act  in  your  presence.  I  beg  your  pardon;  you 
shall  no  longer  be  offended  with  mock  virtues. 
Perhaps  you  would  prefer  savage  ones." 

"They  might  become  you  better,"  said  Hero, 
jumping  blindly  at  the  significance  of  his  repartee ; 
then  shrank  back,  appalled  by  her  own  audacity. 
Paul  surveyed  her  with  such  utter  astonishment 
that  she  burst  out  laughing. 

It  was  the  only  time  that  Paul  had  heard  that 
sound  from  those  sober  lips.  Smiles  had  hovered 
round  them,  mockery  and  contempt  had  thinned 
and  distorted  them,  but  hitherto  laughter  had 
not  broken  forth.  The  silver  chime,  a  crisp, 
staccato  phrase  of  merriment,  lured  him  into 
speech. 

"I  would  crawl  ten  miles  on  my  hands  and 
knees  to  hear  you  laugh  like  that  again,"  he  said, 
extravagantly. 

The  idea  set  Hero  off  once  more. 

"I  don't  think  you  would  look  very  dignified," 
she  answered,  regaining  her  gravity;  "and  it 
would  hurt  you  horribly  before  you  got  through 
with  it." 


THE  CONSENT  OF  THE  CAPTIVE      157 

Paul  knitted  his  brows  at  her. 

"I  begin  to  suspect,"  he  vouchsafed,  "that  I 
have  been  shockingly  blind ;  I  hardly  seem  to  rec- 
ognize you  in  your  present  mood." 

His  wife's  mouth  twitched. 

"You  have  been  very  serious,"  she  admitted; 
"if  only  you  knew  what  a  relief  it  is  to  have  had 
a  good  laugh." 

Paul  contemplated  the  glowing  face,  so  mis- 
chievously arch. 

"How  pretty  you  are !"  he  said,  leaning  across 
the  table.  Hero  attacked  her  portion  of  the  dish 
before  them — a  mysterious  pudding  with  a  name 
all  n's  and  ^'s.  Yet  her  blue  eyes  were  very 
bright. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  observed,  "I  could  go  on 
forever  telling  you  how  much  I  love  you." 

"I — I  didn't  interrupt,"  said  Hero,  and  laughed 
again  at  her  husband's  astonishment. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A     QUESTION     OF     THE     ABSOLUTE 

THE  long  train  jarred  its  way  into  the  terminus 
and  halted — after  the  habit  of  trains,  sickeningly. 
Mrs.  Gotch  had  come  to  meet  it :  she  sought  for 
her  son  among  the  instantaneous  crowd.  Find- 
ing him,  her  eyes  made  a  keen  inquisition  upon 
his  face,  harvesting  surprise;  it  was  unaffectedly 
gay.  Hero's  was  hardly  less  bright,  dulled  a 
trifle,  maybe,  by  fatigue,  otherwise  her  transfor- 
mation was  complete.  She  had  on  a  smart  black 
costume  that  had  not  been  in  her  trousseau  when 
she  went  away;  a  fashionable  toque  lent  a  note 
of  accentuation  to  her  head  and  shoulders.  Her 
hair  was  done  unusually;  Selina  Gotch  recog- 
nized the  latest  mode.  The  slender  figure  was 
carried  with  a  new  ease  and  independence;  at  a 
blow  Hero  had  cut  her  provincialism  adrift. 
Mrs.  Gotch  suspected  her  for  it. 

Paul  caught  his  mother's  eyes  and  smiled,  so 
ardently  happy  that  she  perforce  smiled  also,  re- 
joicing in  his  happiness.  The  women  kissed; 
their  better  selves  throbbed  momentarily  at  the 
158 


A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE   1 59 

contact.  The  man  chartered  a  four-wheeler  and 
gave  orders  about  the  luggage.  They  alighted 
at  the  rough  wooden  gate  by  St.  Faith's  and  went 
to  the  white  cottage  on  foot.  Paul  walked  spring- 
ily  on  the  familiar  path  and  looked  out  fond1;,' 
over  the  uneven  landscape. 

"Our  ancestral  halls  are  not  impressive,  are 
they?"  he  remarked  to  his  mother;  "but  our  cubic 
allowance  of  air  is  a  thing  to  thank  God  for." 

"I'm  afraid  Hero  will  find  it  very  unpleasant  on 
rainy  days,"  said  Mrs.  Gotch  the  elder. 

"I  don't  mind  that — so  much,"  confessed  Hero, 
with  a  recrudescence  of  honesty  in  the  tag  of  the 
sentence;  "but  there  are  so  few  people  about. 
The  crowds  in  London  were  lovely,  such  queer 
people,  I  could  have  watched  them  for  weeks. 
If  I  had  to  be  very  miserable  I  think  I  should  like 
it  to  be  in  London.  I  am  sure  I  should  feel  too 
insignificant  to  take  my  troubles  very  seriously. 
If  I  got  anything  on  my  conscience  here  it  would 
grow  and  grow  and  grow  till  I  should  want  to 
jump  into  one  of  those  muddy  pools." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  returned  her  hus- 
band; "in  London  there  is  no  room  for  one  to 
cast  one's  private  shadow,  here  it  stretches  for 
yards,  huge  and  terrifying,  staining  one's  past  or 
blackening  one's  future.  Egoism  is  largely  an 
affair  of  environment ;  solitude  may  swell  it  to  a 
disease,  as  in  melancholia." 

In  an  upper  room  of  the  cottage  Hero  spread 


160          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

out  sundry  of  her  London  purchases,  yearning  for 
feminine  sympathy.  Mrs.  Gotch  accorded  it, 
whimsically  but  sincerely.  Hero  scented  disap- 
proval of  certain  merely  pretty  things.  They  had 
procured  for  her,  however,  a  little  gold  watch,  to 
which  she  took  no  such  exception. 

"Paul  bought  so  much  for  me  that  I  insisted  he 
should  get  something  very  beautiful  for  you," 
said  Hero,  unconsciously.  The  next  moment  she 
was  blushing  red-hot  from  crowrn  to  tiptoe — there 
had  been  a  cruel  stab  for  maternal  pride  in  the 
suggestion  of  Paul's  negligence  and  her  interven- 
tion. But  she  had  sense  enough  to  leave  the  slip 
alone ;  balm,  though  never  so  subtly  administered, 
could  only  gall  such  a  wound. 

"Now  I  will  go  and  draw  the  tea,"  said  Mrs. 
Gotch,  after  due  recognition  of  the  gift;  "every- 
thing else  is  ready,"  and  she  departed. 

Hero,  left  alone,  looked  out  of  the  window  and 
pondered  the  harsh  browns  and  greens  of  the 
prospect.  The  pug-mill  was  thudding  monot- 
onously; the  sunshine  danced  on  the  windy  sur- 
faces of  the  mimic  meres ;  some  juvenile  anglers, 
tattered  and  barefoot,  were  bobbing  for  "jack- 
sharp"  in  the  dusky  water. 

"If  I  don't  have  the  dismals  before  I'm  much 
older,"  reflected  the  spectator,  candidly,  "my  name 
is  not  Hero  Latimer." 

Again  the  swift  corporeal  blush  overspread  her ; 
she  recollected  that  her  name  was  indeed  not  that 
which  she  had  just  uttered.  She  was  a  mar- 


A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  161: 

ried  woman,  plighted  and  espoused,  and  her  name 
was  Hero  Gotch.  She  said  it  to  herself,  not 
greatly  liking  its  triplet  of  syllables.  Then,  with 
a  philosophic  grimace,  more  humorous  than  ill- 
tempered,  she  descended  to  the  high  tea,  of  which 
she  had  caught  a  glimpse  in  the  small  parlor. 

That  apartment  proving  empty,  she  went  into 
Paul's  work-room.  Her  husband  \vas  reading 

O 

letters,  and  spoke  to  her  casually  of  their  contents. 
He  would  have  liked  her  to  presume  upon  scan- 
ning them,  but  she  was  not  sufficiently  coquettish. 
Instead,  she  considered  his  library,  pleased  to  find 
herself  mistress  of  so  much  print.  Paul  came  and 
put  an  arm  about  her. 

"My  mind  misgives  me  that  you  may  be  lonely 
here,"  he  said ;  "if  so,  let  me  know  before  you  get 
too  depressed  and  I  will  invent  diversions.  I 
warn  you  because  I  have  a  bad  habit  of  getting 
absorbed;  it  may  not  hold  where  you  are  con- 
cerned— you  are  very  dear  to  me,  sweetheart — 
but  it  is  as  well  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  I  have  never 
been  married  before,  and  they  say  man  and  wife 
soon  bore  one  another.  What  sort  of  books  do 
you  like?  Here  are  novels,  a  small  selection; 
these  are  travels,  these  historical  and  political, 
these  biographies,  letters,  and  memoirs — the  flesh 
and  blood  that  the  historian  pickles.  London  in- 
terests you:  that  rack  is  stored  with  London 
ghosts,  scandalous  folk,  many  of  them,  but  im- 
mortal for  all  that,  and  most  with  a  red  scar  or 


1 62  A   SOX    OF   AUSTERITY 

two  over  the  left  breast,  where  Dan  Cupid's  arrow 
went  in." 

He  showed  her  a  corner  where  was  a  low 
rocking-chair,  a  big  screen  drawn  about  it,  and 
a  table  with  a  shaded  lamp. 

"Your  shrine,"  he  said  ;  "you  admitted  that  you 
liked  a  rocking-chair,  so  I  had  one  sent  up.  The 
corner  would  be  draughty  without  the  screen. 
And  here  is  a  hassock  for  your  feet — a  hassock  is 
to  a  rocking-chair  what  mustard  is  to  beef.  Fin- 
ally, oh  goddess !  be  propitious  to  thy  worshiper 
and  honor  thy  shrine  not  seldom." 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  murmured  Hero. 

"A  selfish  goodness,"  returned  Paul;  "you 
have  rounded  my  life  into  completeness.  If  I 
knew  a  language  that  only  you  and  I  could  read,  I 
would  write  up  over  your  shrine  in  golden  letters 
a  wonderful  proverb  that  certain  wiseacres  threw 
out  of  the  Scriptures,  'A  friend  and  companion 
never  meet  amiss,  but  above  both  is  a  wife  with 
her  husband.' ' 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  her  quiveringly. 
Mrs.  Gotch  was  summoning  them  from  the  next 
room. 

Later  in  the  day  the  vicar  called,  bringing  Elsie, 

"You  are  complimented,  Hero,"  said  Paul 
"this  is  Stuart's  first  visit  to  these  rural  haunts 
my  fascinations  never  lured  him  hither." 

Patrick  Stuart  was  shaking  hands  with  the 
person  addressed;  a  glance  at  the  faces  of  both 


had  brought  a  pleased,  if  quizzical,  light  into  his 
own. 

"Take  Dearie  away,  Mr.  Gotch,  and  let  me  have 
a  share  of  Hero,"  instructed  the  blind  girl ;  "make 
him  understand  how  your  machine  eats  clay  and 
spits  out  bricks." 

Paul  bore  off  his  indolent  guest,  bribing  him 
with  the  suggestion  of  a  cigar. 

Elsie  launched  into  intimacy.  "Now,  darling," 
she  cried,  "tell  me,  are  you  very,  very  happy?" 

"Very,"  said  Hero,  putting  her  guest  into  a 
seat;  "London  is  a  perfect  miracle." 

"London  be  bothered,"  said  Elsie;  "do  you  like 
being  married?" 

Mrs.  Gotch  the  younger  colored.  "It  is  nice 
to  be  free,"  she  owned,  "and  to  go  about  and  to 
have  some  one  who  is  very,  very  fond  of  you." 

"And  whom  you  are  very,  very  fond  of?"  de- 
manded the  persistent  psychologist. 

"Of  course,"  said  Hero. 

"Humph,"  retorted  Elsie;  "is  he  a  wonderful, 
beautiful  mystery  to  you?" 

Hero  hesitated  about  the  penultimate  adjective, 
inclined  to  agreement  upon  the  noun,  but  in  the 
end  demurred. 

"I  don't  think  he's  a  mystery,"  she  decided; 
"he  is  gentle  and  thoughtful  and — and  interest- 
ing— and  unexpected,  and  so  fond  of  me  he  quite 
frightens  me  sometimes.  But  I  believe  I  know 
just  how  he  works." 

"And  you  don't  feel  as  if  you  wanted  to  cry  out 


1 64          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

for  joy  when  you  remember  that  he  loves  you 
better  than  anybody  else  in  the  world?"  pursued 
Elsie,  incredulously.  "You  don't  feel  when  you 
think  of  him  as  if  you  hadn't  eaten  anything  for 
years  and  some  one  had  just  said  'roast  chicken'  ? 
You  don't  feel  when  you  are  with  him  that  you 
are  dreaming  the  most  delicious  dream  of  your 
whole  life,  and  that  you  are  afraid  of  waking  up 
and  finding  yourself  alone?" 

"I  believe  not,"  yielded  the  witness. 

"What  a  pity !"  said  Elsie.  "When  you've  got 
it  like  that,  love's  the  most  beautiful  feeling  you 
can  have.  But  I  don't  suppose  it's  more  to  you 
than  lots  of  other  nice  things  that  one  doesn't 
rave  about.  Justine  called  you  un  coeur  de  glace, 
and  she  told  me  a  story  about  a  princess  who  lived 
at  the  North  Pole,  and  had  a  heart  of  ice  and  a 
new  husband  every  week.  When  she  kissed  them 
they  all  died,  and  she  built  up  their  bodies  into  a 
tower  a  thousand  feet  high,  and  stood  on  it  every 
night  when  the  moon  came  out,  singing.  And 
the  wind  carried  her  singing  away,  and  new  hus- 
bands came  to  her  in  shiploads ;  but  they  all  died, 
too.  I  made  up  some  of  the  story  myself,"  added 
Elsie,  with  an  engaging  frankness. 

Hero  smiled;  but  the  fantastic  epilogue  was 
not  without  its  sting.  She  turned  the  talk  into  a 
less  embarrassing  channel. 

Meanwhile  the  vicar  was  felicitating  Paul. 
The  two  men  strolled  up  and  down  a  flat  bank  of 
red  clay  and  trampled  loam,  Patrick  Stuart  nurs- 


'A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE  165 

ing  his  cigar  with  an  appreciative  angle  of  his 
sensitive  mouth. 

"Your  experiment  appears  to  have  been  success- 
ful," he  conceded,  a  propos  of  nothing;  "young 
Mrs.  Gotch  seems  quite  reconciled  to  your  uncere- 
monious incursion  into  her  life." 

"I  trust  so,"  answered  Paul. 

"Are  you — satisfied  yourself?"  ventured  the 
vicar,  tantalizing  his  palate  by  withdrawing  and 
returning  the  fragrant  Muria. 

"If  a  man  does  not  know  the  whole,  how  can  he 
distinguish  it  from  a  part?"  queried  the  other, 
mystically. 

"Meaning ?"  suggested  Patrick  Stuart. 

"That  a  man  can  never  be  sure  if  he  has  called 
forth  the  absolute  love  of  a  woman,"  interpreted 
Paul;  "or  if  what  he  enjoys  be  as  Windermere 
to  the  Pacific." 

"Can  not  he?"  commented  the  vicar,  dryly. 

"He  may  suspect,"  allowed  his  prote'ge;  "can 
he  be  sure  ? — temperaments  vary." 

"Yet  each  has  its  own  maximum  of  emotion — 
what  you  have  called  its  absolute  love,"  rejoined 
Patrick  Stuart;  "so  long  as  a  man's  absolute  of 
emotion  is  not  below  that  of  his — -his  inamorata, 
he  can  estimate  the  degree  of  her  love  which  he 
evokes  by  his  own  degree  of  contentment." 

"If  the  woman's  absolute  be  lower  than  the 
man's?"  queried  Paul. 

The  vicar  "lipped"  his  cigar. 

"The  dissatisfied  heart  is  fickle,"  he  said. 


1 66          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Indeed,"  persisted  his  companion;  "I  thought 
it  was  the  satisfied  one." 

"A  commonplace  of  cynicism,"  asserted  the 
elder  man.  The  most  constant  thing  on  earth  is  a 
dissatisfied  heart  that  has  hope;  but  if  you  are 
not  contented  with  the  absolute  of  any  soul,  you 
must  seek  a  greater  absolute  in  another." 

"There  are  at  least  three  separate  and  distinct 
discrepancies  in  your  completed  argument," 
snapped  Paul. 

"I  know,"  rejoined  the  logician ;  "in  love  con- 
tradiction is  the  essence  of  sound  philosophy. 
How  brazenly  yellow  those  dandelions  are! 
Don't  you  suppose  Elsie  will  have  finished  petting 
your  wife?" 

At  the  entrance  to  the  small  and  daisied  garden 
he  threw  away  his  cigar  and  studied  Paul  kindly. 

"Prosperity  to  your  affaires  de  coeur,  my  son," 
he  said;  "Elsie  is  to  me  a  memento  that  I  was 
once,  as  you  are,  a  yeasty  compost  of  the  cultured 
and  the  primeval.  My  life  came  out  of  the 
kneading-trough  plain  bread — a  trifle  'sad/  as 
housewives  have  it.  Yours  may  prove  cake,  in 
which  case,  'may  good  digestion  wait  on  appe- 
tite.' If  not,  take,  as  I  have  done,  to  tobacco." 

He  stepped  within  for  Elsie,  made  his  adieux, 
and  went  off — fondling,  with  his  mobile  lips,  a 
second  cigar. 

The  sunset  was  flooding  the  lucid  sweep  of  the 
west ;  Paul  and  Hero  stood  for  a  moment  to  look 
at  it. 


A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE   167 

"You  spoke  the  other  day  in  London,"  he  said, 
"of  your  mother  and  of  her  religious  fears.  Do 
you  remember  using  the  phrase — things  no  one 
can  be  certain  of?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  his  wife — her  tone  had  in  it 
an  echo  of  alarm. 

Paul  motioned  to  the  glowing  arc  of  the  hori- 
zon. 

"That  thrills  you?"  he  asked.  Her  face  was 
answer  enough. 

"Is  it  more  beautiful  or  more  sad?"  pursued 
her  husband. 

Hero  plunged  into  herself.  "More  sad,"  she 
replied. 

"Why?"  Paul  drove  her  back  upon  rarely- 
used  faculties. 

"I  think,"  said  his  wife,  nervously,  "because  it 
is  so  beautiful  and  lasts  such  a  little  while." 

"All  sovereign  beauty  saddens,"  murmured 
Paul ;  "either  it  passes  from  us  or  we  from  it. 
That  sadness  is  the  protest  of  man  against  the 
Finite.  There  are  times  when  I  think  it  proves 
him  a  child  of  Infinity,  at  others  I  feel  with  you 
that  there  are  things  no  one  can  be  certain  of. 
Yet  if  there  is  to  be,  at  long  last,  no  answer  to 
the  imperious  desires  of  the  spirit,  such  as  there 
are  to  those  of  the  heart  and  the  body,  we  need 
not  regret  having  tried  to  believe  it.  We  shall 
merely  have  been  greater  than  the  event.  Phi- 
losophy itself  anticipates  the  fact  bv  hypothesis — 


1 68          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

so  science  has  been  made  possible.  Have  you  no 
hypothesis  of  the  Eternal  ?" 

Hero  cast  down  her  eyes,  abashed.  There  is 
a  spiritual  pudicity,  as  a  physical.  The  tremor 
of  the  sunset  answered  the  fluttering  tints  about 
her  cheek  and  throat. 

"We  can  always  do  right,"  she  responded,  ob- 
liquely. 

"A  man's — or  a  woman's — theory  of  God  is 
their  effective  moral  compass,"  insisted  Paul ; 
"ethics  vary  with  geography  and  the  date." 

The  shy  thinker,  driven  to  the  wall,  took  refuge 
in  analogy. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  grope  my  way,"  she 
said. 

The  pathetic  quip  disarmed  her  husband;  he 
stood  thinking  for  a  moment.  The  air  was  cool- 
ing fast ;  the  voices  of  the  children  on  the  patches 
of  greensward  eddied  to  his  ears;  the  calm  pes- 
simism of  evening  was  invading  the  rugged  out- 
look. 

"Theories  apart,"  he  confessed,  suddenly,  "that 
is  what  we  are  all  doing — steering  by  the  stars, 
as  it  were.  And  who  appoints  us  our  stars? — 
not  ourselves.  Love  and  Ambition,  Philosophy 
and  Religion,  all  have  taken  their  tithe  of  wreck, 
all  have  brought  storm-tossed  souls  into  harbor. 
Not  till  the  ocean  of  existence  shall  have  been 
plumbed  and  charted  will  star  or  compass  prove 
infallible.' 


A  QUESTION  OF  THE  ABSOLUTE   169 

Mrs.  Gotch  was  lighting  the  lamps ;  Paul 
looked  through  a  pane  into  his  work-room. 

"See,"  he  said,  "your  shrine  gleams  propi- 
tiously; that  is  my  star — to  what  end  does  it 
draw  me  on?  Shall  we  go  in,  sweetheart?" 


CHAPTER  XV 

PERCEPTION    OF    THE    IRREVOCABLE 

THE  little  house  on  the  brickfield  was  too  mod- 
est and  well-ordered  to  narcotize  its  women-folk 
with  domesticity.  Selina  Gotch  herself  found 
time  to  read  voraciously — for  preference  a  mod- 
ern type  of  fiction,  massive,  problematic,  socially- 
resentful,  often  grimly  humorous.  Its  iron  emo- 
tions lent  her  a  kind  of  countenance. 

A  certain  tact  kept  her  from  playing-  goose- 
berry; she  took  her  book  into  the  parlor.  Her 
teeth  were  sound  and  white;  being  fond  of  nuts, 
she  munched  them  between  whiles,  like  the  sail- 
or's wife  in  Macbeth.  She  was  an  odd  figure, 
with  a  blue  and  red  Chinese  bowl  on  her  lap,  full 
of  whole  and  broken  shells,  a  pair  of  crackers 
elbowing  it,  a  heavy  octavo  lifted  to  her  eyes ;  at 
such  moments,  in  a  reluctant,  passive  way,  she 
was  glad  of  life.  Occasionally  she  traveled  afield 
to  some  suburb  and  cronied  with  odd  folk  over 
plenteous  tea-tables.  Amplitude  in  her  had  been 
frosted  by  adversity ;  she  had  gnarled  as  a  thorn- 
bush  does  in  mountain  winds ;  she  creaked  sturd- 
ily against  all  external  influences.  Hero  fath- 
170 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  171 

omed  her  cheerfully,  too  comprehending  to  be 
critical. 

Hero  herself  was  bourgeoning  like  a  rose-bush 
in  a  moist  April.  She  had  discovered  Dumas — 
pere,  not  fils;  Dumas  and  his  brave  mock  France 
of  the  ancient  regime.  Through  her  illumined 
brain  Gallic  romance  led  its  company  of  ardent 
puppets — loyal,  passionate,  gallant,  oblivious  to 
the  Decalogue,  a  swirl  of  rainbow  butterflies 
about  the  fierce  light  of  love.  How  could  her 
woman's  heart  judge  them?  There  was  too 
much  of  hope  and  fear,  of  quick,  short  happiness 
with  the  pang  of  trepidation  in  it ;  above  all,  too 
swift  a  retribution  of  maimed  symmetry  and 
singed  wings.  Plot  and  counter-plot  flattered 
her  woman's  wit  that  probed  them;  the  inbred 
qualities  of  her  sex  stirred  maturely;  the  elated 
feminine  mind  cooed  over  the  warm  duplicity, 
the  breathless  good  fortune,  the  velvet  peccadil- 
loes of  these  sanguine  men  and  women  that  ven- 
tured themselves  so  dauntlessly  for  one  efflores- 
cent hour. 

At  times  she  disentangled  the  Frenchman's 
history  with  the  aid  of  more  ponderous  tomes; 
Paul  smiled  at  her  appreciatively,  and  added  in- 
termittent synopses.  The  demure  reader  swept 
aside  the  fates  of  kingdoms  to  follow  absorbing 
he's  and  she's  down  the  dusty  corridors  of  the 
past.  Moved  with  the  echoes  of  their  murmur- 
ous courtship,  she  was  unmindful  of  the  recurrent 
stigma  upon  the  white  brows  of  the  one,  the  ready 


172          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

sword  at  the  heel  of  the  other.  Were  they  not 
human — had  they  not  loved?  She  peeped  at 
their  happiness  without  a  blush. 

Her  husband  took  her  often  to  the  theater, — 
thus  unawrares  he  could  pore  upon  her  face;  it 
grew  so  bright  with  sympathy,  so  glowingly 
alive  to  the  imagined  souls  upon  the  stage.  Other 
eyes  rested  upon  her  inquiringly,  so  magnetic  was 
that  pulsating  sympathy.  Paul  could  offer  her 
few  friends,  his  circle  being  masculine  and  of  the 
smallest;  the  theater  provided  opportunities  for 
that  dress  parade  which  is  disdained  by  no 
woman.  With  her  return  from  London  Hero  had 
re-assumed  her  mourning,  but  black  can  be  made 
distinguee;  he  looked  for  the  time  when  she  could 
adopt  gayer  attire.  Young  women  are  like  chil- 
dren— they  ail  without  their  share  of  joyousness, 
even  in  fabrics.  Unexpressed  as  it  was,  each 
tacitly  recognized  Selina  Gotch's  disapproval, 
both  of  the  extent  of  Hero's  wardrobe  and  the 
visits  to  the  play. 

Paul's  resources,  however,  swelled  to  meet 
both.  The  foresight  of  the  hard  old  man  who 
had  leased  the  once  unprofitable  clayfield  was 
being  vindicated  by  the  march  of  the  suburbs; 
the  lack  of  freight  on  the  Gotch  bricks  brought 
an  increasing  prosperity  to  the  white  cottage. 
The  matrimonial  spur  waged  war  with  the  indo- 
lence of  the  man  of  letters ;  Paul  made  new  alli- 
ances, found  himself  working  different  and  more 
remunerative  veins  of  literary  ore.  His  days 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  173 

filled,  even  inconveniently;  his  stimulus  was  the 
sight  of  that  screened  corner  which  he  had  christ- 
ened Hero's  shrine.  So  the  weeks  flew. 

Paul,  tied  increasingly  to  the  round-oak  table, 
saw,  nevertheless,  that  Hero  took  a  sufficiency  of 
exercise.  At  first  she  beat  up  quondam  girlish 
acquaintances,  but  something  had  come  between ; 
she  sunned  herself  in  their  bewilderment  for  a 
while,  then,  fretted  by  their  childish  outlook,  let 
them  slip  from  her.  She  was  all  the  more  lonely. 

Yet  the  instinct  of  observation  that  had  sprung 
to  life  in  the  London  streets  saved  her  from  bore- 
dom; she  walked  enjoyably,  drank  tea,  when  she 
grew  tired,  in  convenient  cafes,  and  studied  the 
local  public  as  she  had  studied  the  metropolitan. 
She  had  an  excellent  memory  for  faces,  and  an 
eye  to  read  them ;  she  marked  a  dozen  amourettes 
and  watched  their  progress  gravely.  Her  taci- 
turnity increased ;  it  was  an  effort  to  speak  to  her 
husband  of  what  she  had  done  and  seen  upon 
these  frequent  constitutionals.  Sometimes  she 
would  describe  vivaciously  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then,  startled  by  her  own  act,  retreat  into 
herself.  Paul  humored  her,  now  that  she  had 
become  his  wife;  that  methodical  brutality  with 
which  he  had  marched  into  her  existence,  a  psy- 
chological surgeon  with  verbal  knife  and  cautery, 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  him.  He  was  tremu- 
lously anxious  that  she  should  be  happy — in  her 
own  way  at  that ;  he  shrank  from  any  appearance 
of  dictation;  in  the  most  immaterial  of  trifles  he 


174          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

urged  her  to  make  embarrassing  choices.  Hero 
grew  placidly  self-contained  ;  reading,  observation 
and  thought  built  up  her  days  into  personality. 
Once  or  twice  the  theater  wearied  her. 

Summer  verged  upon  autumn ;  she  felt  the  mel- 
ancholy of  the  period ;  too  restless  to  remain  in- 
doors, she  walked  daily.  Setting  out  upon  a 
golden  afternoon,  she  had  gained  the  high-road 
that  ran  into  the  town,  when  a  quick  step  roused 
her  to  a  sense  of  pursuit.  A  moment  later  a 
voice  spoke  to  her  from  behind — a  ringing,  deter- 
minate voice,  assertive,  peculiar. 

"Well,  this  is  a  surprise !"  said  the  voice ;  "and 
yet  I  thought  it  couldn't  be  any  one  but  little 
Fluffy."  Hero  turned.  The  speaker  was  a  tall, 
squarely-built  fellow,  with  a  blonde  mustache 
and  eyes  of  a  golden-brown,  notable  for  their  con- 
tracted irises.  His  nose  was  narrow  and  slightly 
aquiline — the  Bavarian  type — its  nostrils  caught 
upwards  and  outwards.  He  carried  his  head 
with  a  certain  aggressive  freedom,  the  set  of  his 
lips  seemed  a  belated  part  of  his  expression. 

"By  Jove,"  he  added,  as  she  faced  him;  "if  I'd 
looked  again  I'd  have  said  it  wasn't  you.  How 
smart  we  are!"  And  a  hand  was  held  out  to 
her — a  large,  broad  hand,  with  a  big  buckle  ring 
on  it. 

Hero  gave  him  her  gloved  palm. 

"Good-afternoon,"  she  said. 

The  other  was  flashing  masculine  glances  about 
her.  There  was  an  involuntary  pause. 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  175 

"And  so,"  pursued  her  vis-'a-'i'is,  "you  haven't 
forgotten  dear  old  Douglas  and  the  prom'.  Jolly 
times,  weren't  they?  Been  away  this  year?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hero,  inwardly  amused;  "Lon- 
don." 

"Keeping  you  standing,  aint  I?"  she  was  told; 
"I  believe  I'm  going  your  way" — the  action  was 
suited  to  the  word;  "like  London,  eh?" 

"Very  much,"  answered  Hero,  quickening  her 
pace  to  keep  up  with  the  regardless  strides. 

"Big  place,  isn't  it?"  dismissed  the  metropolis 
from  the  conversation.  "I  say,  you  know  it's 
quite  a  treat,  meeting  you  like  this ;  I've  thought 
about  you  a  lot.  How  are  the  other  girls  getting 
on — are  you  still  chummy  with  the  same  crowd  ?" 

"I  see  them  sometimes,"  said  Hero,  absently. 
She  shied  at  the  idea  of  proclaiming  her  marriage 
— her  thoughts  were  wrestling  with  methods  of 
hinting  it. 

"Been  to  any  dances  lately?"  invaded  her  ears. 

Hero  shook  her  head,  perturbed  by  the  ques- 
tion. 

"Remember  my  teaching  you  how  to  reverse  ?" 
she  was  asked;  "beastly  crowd  they  get  there, 
don't  they?  I'm  off  the  Island  for  the  future — 
unless  there's  any  hope  of  seeing  you  there  next 
summer ;  I  don't  mean  to  let  you  give  me  the  slip 
again.  What  a  quiet  little  puss  you  are! — here 
I've  been  doing  all  the  gassing  and  you  primming 
your  mouth  just  as  you  used  to  do  on  the  Head 
when  they  sang 


i;6          A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

"  'Every  pretty  girl  he  kisses 

He  says  "This  is  champion,  this  is;" 
But  he  doesn't  tell  his  missis 
By  the  sad  sea  waves.' 

You  remember  that  thing,  don't  you  ? — gad.  how 
the  fellows  used  to  howl  it  when  they  saw  a 
couple  spooning!" 

Hero  was  driven  into  resolution. 

"You  haven't  heard  any  news  about  me  lately, 
Mr.  Jephson?"  she  said. 

"Still  the  Mr. !"  retorted  the  person  addressed; 
"no,  I've  not  heard  a  word  of  any  sort.  Began 
to  think  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

"Well,"  burst  out  Hero,  courageously.  "I'm 
married/' 

Mr.  Jephson  whistled;  then  incredulity  dis- 
placed surprise. 

"Rats !"  he  ejaculated. 

Hero  colored. 

"Mr.  Jephson!''  she  cried. 

The  other  considered  her  glowing  countenance, 
her  stylish  frock,  her  air  of  independence.  His 
face  wrinkled  into  a  look  of  sly  wisdom — liber- 
tine, elusively  cruel. 

"Fluffy,"  he  cried,  "you've  not  been  and  mar- 
ried some  old  bounder  for  his  money  ?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  by  that  silly 
name,"  flamed  Hero,  on  the  edge  of  tears;  "I 
always  hated  it.  I  must  go  now;  I've  told  you 
the  truth,  and  you  needn't  have  insulted  me  for 
it." 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREl  'OCABLE  1 77 

The  man  Jephson  descended  from  mirth  to 
apology. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly;  "and  may 
I  ask  your  new  name  ?" 

"No,  don't,"  besought  Hero;  "I — I'm  sure  my 
husband  and  you  wouldn't  get  on  together :  we 
aren't  really  friends  after  all." 

"The  cantankerous  brute,"  said  the  man  Jeph- 
son. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that,"  explained  Hero;  "it's 
you  and  I  who  are  not  friends.  You  only  met 
me  with  some  girls  I  knew.  Do  let  me  turn  back 
now;  I  just  came  out  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air; 
I'm  not  going  anywhere  in  particular." 

"Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  was  the  grudging 
reply;  "may  I  not  see  you  part  of  the  way?" 

"Please,  no,"  insisted  Hero. 

The  man  Jephson  held  out  his  hand  once  more. 
His  flat  brown  eyes  lingered  on  her  like  sugary 
flies  on  a  window-pane. 

"I  was  as  pleased  as  Punch  when  I  saw  you  a 
minute  ago,"  he  said,  "and  now  I  feel  as  if  I 
wanted  to  go  and  get  gloriously  drunk.  I've 
always  hoped  to  meet  you  again,  you  had  some- 
thing about  you  that  got  round  me  somehow:  I 
was  certain  you'd  make  a  first-rate  chum.  Your 
husband's  a  lucky  beggar." 

He  squeezed  her  fingers  and  sighed. 

"So  you're  actually  married,"  he  muttered; 
"pretty  frocks  and  no  need  to  work ;  by  Jove,  I'd 


178          A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

have  given  you  the  same.  Fluffy,  I  would,  in- 
deed." 

"Mr.  Jephson,"  murmured  Hero,  "you  didn't 
mean  what  you  said  about  getting  drunk !  Please 
don't  do  anything  so  silly." 

The  man  Jephson  looked  at  her. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  was  only  joking.  But  I'm 
sorry  you've  gone  and  fallen  in  love  without  giv- 
ing me  a  chance." 

They  had  paused  on  a  corner  fairly  free  from 
pedestrians;  he  detained  her  hand,  though  she 
strove  to  release  it. 

"Is  it  love,  Fluffy?"  he  asked  her. 

Hero  dragged  her  fingers  away.  "Good-bye,'* 
she  said,  and  went  off  with  a  hasty  step.  The 
man  Jephson  made  a  stride  after  her,  but  she 
turned  with  such  an  imploring  glance  that  he 
swung  round  and  moodily  retraced  the  road  by 
which  they  had  come. 

Satisfied  that  she  was  not  pursued,  Hero 
walked  more  deliberately.  Her  head,  to  sensa- 
tion, was  spinning  like  a  top ;  the  last  few  months 
seemed  blotted  out  of  her  memory,  even  the  recol- 
lection of  her  mother's  death  rolled  up  like  a 
curtain.  She  was  a  girl  again,  a  unit  in  a  class, 
stamped  mysteriously  with  its  mark;  in  thought 
she  slipped  back  into  the  mental  gulf  from  which 
a  strong  hand  had  drawn  her. 

She  remembered  that  trip  to  the  Island  with 
a  bevy  of  girl  friends — rackety,  careless,  honest 
for  the  most  part,  feminine  wildings,  shrieking 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  179 

exultant  over  their  holiday,  self-respect  and  hys- 
teria at  hand-grips,  self-respect  under.  Not  that 
she  admitted  this  reflection — she  championed 
them  hastily  against  her  incipient  censure. 

Again  she  saw  the  long  sea- front,  glaringly 
white,  rampart-fronted,  curvilinear,  backed  by 
stucco  hotels,  frowned  on  by  broken  hills ;  she 
saw  the  Bay  swing  open  to  the  nearing  steamer, 
saw  the  lines  of  boisterous  faces  on  the  landings, 
felt  the  madness  of  the  townsman's  holiday  in 
brain  and  blood. 

What  uncouth  follies  that  week  had  held! — 
the  extravagance  of  an  all-too-brief  emancipation 
bred  them  daily.  But  the  ozone  came  back  with 
the  memory  of  them  and  pleaded  their  pardon; 
she  had  been  herself,  the  self  that  it  came  easiest 
to  be.  The  girls  had  paired  off  in  the  mock  flir- 
tations of  such  maladroit  revelers,  she  had  fallen 
to  the  lot  of  the  man  Jephson — he  had  elbowed 
crowds  for  her,  distributed  ( in  joint  account  with 
the  escorts  of  her  companions)  sundry  small 
moneys,  lounged  with  her  on  the  spacious  prom', 
christened  her  Fluffy — her  hair  would  feather 
over  brow  and  temples — chaffed  her  good-humor- 
edly  and  her  banterers  mercilessly.  Once  he  had 
stolen  a  kiss — a  half  of  one ! — on  the  margin  of  a 
shadow  as  they  threaded  the  gawky  straddle  of 
the  Iron  Pier;  she  had  sulked  till  he  left. 

She  paused,  mounting  a  step.  Unconsciously 
her  feet  had  carried  her  to  a  familiar  street,  to 
the  house  where  her  mother  had  died.  She 


i8o          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

chilled  horribly,  and  hurried  to  clear  the  grim, 
low-browed  thoroughfare.  Passing  the  residence 
of  the  guardian  neighbor  from  whom  Paul  had 
delivered  her,  she  bent  her  head,  fearing  a  chance 
recognition.  At  the  road-end  she  entered  a  'bus, 
and  was  jolted  toward  the  western  skirt  of  the 
clayfield.  Her  thoughts  overcame  her ;  her  mind 
relapsed  into  its  ancient  blank,  a  sullen,  discon- 
solate calm. 

When  she  went  into  her  husband's  room  at  the 
white  cottage  he  rose  and  met  her  fondly,  then 
darkened.  Something  had  gone  from  her — 
something  that  had  enwrapped  her  since  their 
return  from  London;  the  mellowing  atmosphere 
of  content ;  there  was  a  gypsy  note  in  her  expres- 
sion, the  taint  of  fretful  rebellion.  She  chal- 
lenged his  eyes,  and  her  countenance  wavered; 
he  ran  his  fingers  through  his  disordered  locks, 
dismissing  his  pre-occupation. 

"You  look  tired,  sweetheart,"  he  said;  "there 
is  a  quaint  melodrama  at  the  Shakespeare;  we 
will  go  and  see  it." 

She  had  sat  down  in  the  rocking-chair.  Be- 
side it  there  was  an  unaccustomed  article — an 
acorn-shaped  receptacle  of  green  straw,  lined  with 
rosy  silk.  It  stood  on  a  wicker  tripod,  and  the 
silk  neck  closed  with  a  puckering  ribbon. 

"A  new  ornament  for  the  'shrine/  "  said  Paul ; 
"your  needle  has  been  so  busy  lately  it  suggested 
a  work-basket.  See,  I  put  your  sewing  inside 
myself." 


PERCEPTION  OF  THE  IRREVOCABLE  181 

He  parted  the  throat  of  the  cover  to  show  her ; 
an  embroidery  needle  ran  deeply  into  his  hand 
and  he  winced.  Hero  drew  it  out;  a  globule  of 
blood  appeared  on  the  skin,  spreading  with  sur- 
prising speed. 

"How  deep  it  went!"  she  cried,  touching  the 
crimson  runnel  with  her  handkerchief. 

Paul  trembled  at  the  contact  of  her  ringers. 

"I  am  a  storehouse  for  proverbs,"  he  told  her ; 
"one  fits  the  occasion  exactly:  'There  is  little 
steel  in  the  needle's  point,  but  there  is  enough.' 
An  odd  saying,  is  it  not?" 


CHAPTER    XVI 

AFTERMATH    AND    GERMINAL 

ELSIE  took  suddenly  to  spending  no  small  por- 
tion of  her  time  at  the  white  cottage.  She  had 
been  withheld  by  a  characteristic  sentiment  from 
incommoding  the  newly-married  couple,  but  one 
day  struck  up  a  less  conventional  acquaintance 
with  Mrs.  Gotch  the  elder,  and  thereupon  elected 
herself  one  of  that  person's  privileged  callers. 
Selina  Gotch's  conversation  soon  slipped  round 
to  her  favorite  literature,  heretofore  described, 
and  upon  Elsie  evincing  a  profound  interest,  the 
elder  woman  read  long  extracts,  judiciously  sub- 
edited in  parts.  This  incident  repeated  itself; 
reader  and  listener  held  long  pourparlers,  the 
state  of  society — that  with  a  small  ^ — for  sub- 
ject matter.  Hero  was  a  frequent  auditor  at 
these  debates. 

One  October  day  a  cold  snap  sent  them  into 
Paul's  room,  where  there  was  a  fire;  its  wonted 
tenant,  a  chilly  mortal,  was  out.  Hero  sat  in  her 
"shrine,"  Mrs.  Gotch  on  a  spacious  horse-hair 
footstool  by  the  hobbed  fire-place,  Elsie  on  the 
couch. 

182 


AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL     183 

"I  like  this  place,"  said  Elsie;  "it  feels  like 
Mr.  Gotch  himself;  you  expect  every  minute  to 
hear  his  voice  saying  one  of  those  quiet,  honest 
things  that  make  you  feel  just  as  cross  with  him 
as  you're  ashamed  of  yourself.  Dearie  told  him 
a  while  back  that  somebody  or  other  was  a  prig- 
somebody  that  Mr.  Gotch  knew, — my  father  can 
be  awfully  impudent  when  he  likes.  You  could 
just  hear  Mr.  Gotch  think  for  a  minute,  and  then 
he  said,  'What  we  call  priggishness  is  generally 

• 

the  victory  of  moral  courage  over  good  manners. 
Dearie  coughed,  and  said  'Time,'  and  then  they 
both   burst   out   laughing.        Dearie   is   awfully 
smart  at  getting  himself  out  of  a  fix  like  that." 

"I'm  afraid  it  was  Paul  who  wasn't  quite  po- 
lite," put  in  Hero,  a  little  seriously;  she  appre- 
ciated Patrick  Stuart's  delicate  aplomb. 

"Now  you're  only  trying  to  save  my  feelings 
about  Dearie,"  commented  the  blind  girl;  "but  I 
haven't  got  any.  He's  a  perfect  frard,  and  he 
knows  it.  Why,  I've  asked  him  thousands  of 
questions  that  he  can't  answer,  and  yet  he  goes 
on  telling  everybody  how  sure  they  ought  to  be." 

"You  mean  about  religion,"  said  Mrs.  Gotch. 

"I  mean  about  God,"  retorted  Elsie;  "Dearie's 
a  very  clever  man,  but  he  can't  keep  his  voice 
from  letting  out  when  he's  only  making  believe. 
It  gets  a  queer  little  ache  in  it,  like  mine  when 
I'm  telling  Justine  an  extra  big  fib.  When  I  was 
at  Blackpool  once  there  was  somebody  on  the 
sands  who  used  to  preach  against  religion,  and 


1 84          A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

Justine  and  I  used  to  like  to  listen.  I  never 
heard  so  much  sense-preaching  in  all  my  life." 

"Elsie!"  cried  Selina  Gotch.  half  amused,  half 
horrified. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  the  heretic,  composedly; 
"it's  the  truth,  but  I'll  only  make  you  hate  me  if 
I  go  on  about  Dearie  and — and  God.  I'm  sorry 
the  book's  ended,  and  sorriest  of  all  that  they 
didn't  get  married.  Your  stories  are  fearfully 
interesting.  Mrs.  Gotch,  but  they  make  me  feel 
as  if  I  had  a  stone  in  my  chest  instead  of  a  heart. 
Now  Justine's  always  make  me  feel  happy  when 
there  is  a  happy  ending ;  as  if  I  were  just  cuddling 
down  in  bed  on  a  winter  night  and  dropping  off 
to  sleep  thinking  of  all  the  nicest  things  that  ever 
happened  to  me.  When  there  is  a  sorrowful 
ending,  still  you  know  that  the  story  was  nice 
while  it  lasted,  and  there  were  some  happy  times 
in  it.  But  in  your  books  one  gets  to  hate  the 
happy  tirrns,  they  seem,  when  you  look  back  on 
them,  to  have  been  so — so  silly  and  babyish." 

"People  shouldn't  do  things  that  won't  bear 
thinking  about,"  answered  Selina  Gotch. 

"Thank  goodness,  I  don't  worry  about  what 
has  happened,  or  what's  going  to,"  snarled  Elsie, 
and  apologized  immediately.  "But  I  don't,  all 
the  same,"  she  asseverated;  "the  doctors  tell  me 
I  oughtn't  to  eat  such  a  lot  of  goodies,  but  if  I 
stopped  to  think  about  my  health  I  shouldn't  eat 
them,  and  I  should  be  miserable.  What's  the 


AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL     185 

good  of  being  miserable  in  order  to  be  well,  when 
being  well  doesn't  make  one  happy?" 

"It's  better  than  being  happy  for  a  little,  only 
to  be  all  the  more  miserable  at  the  end  of  it/' 
retorted  the  other  party  to  the  discussion. 

"Is  it?"  queried  Elsie;  "now  there  was  Cleo- 
patra; I'm  sure  her  life  was  worth  living.  She 
loved  Antony  and  she  ruined  him,  and  he  was  a 
great  hero;  so  he  must  have  loved  her  a  good 
deal  to  be  willing  to  be  ruined  by  her.  But  they 
had  a  lot  of  happiness  there  in  that  wronderful 
old  Egypt,  and  when  Antony  killed  himself  she 
killed  herself,  too.  Of  course,  it  was  very  sad 
that  they  couldn't  live  and  be  happy  always,  but 
they  had  to  die  in  that  way  to  be  as  great  as  they 
were.  Justine  says  there  are  no  people  like  them 
nowadays;  that  they  have  all  died  out." 

"And  a  good  thing,  too,"  Mrs.  Gotch  told  her. 
"Dear  me!"  mused  the  blind  girl;  "you  are 
unsentimental,  Mrs.  Gotch ;  I  do  think  it's  a  pity." 
"You  see,  Elsie,"  Selina  Gotch  told  her,  ply- 
ing  the    nut-crackers,    "all   the    sentiment   was 
knocked  out  of  me  long  ago.     Your  stories  are 
happy  because  they  mostly  stop  at  the  wedding; 
it's  after  that  that  the  trouble  begins.     Sentiment 
won't  stand  the  matrimonial  wash ;  it  needs  some- 
thing more  durab'e." 

"But  people  can't  get  married  unless  they  love 
one  another,"  cried  the  disputant;  "you  may  like 
people  very  much,  you  may  admire  them  very 
much,  you  may  be  ever  so  much  pleased  to  talk 


1 86  A   SOX   Ol:   AUSTERITY 

to  them  and  be  with  them,  but  that  doesn't  make 
you  love  them.  Now.  I  admire  Mr.  Gotch,  and 
all  that,  but  I  don't  love  him;  Hero  does.  If  I 
married  Mr.  Gotch  I  should  pull  all  his  hair  off 
in  a  month,  and  all  my  liking  for  him  wouldn't 
save  me  from  doing  it." 

"I  married  a  man  I  loved,  or  thought  I  loved." 
said  Mrs.  Gotch,  grimly,  "and  in  six  months  he 
deserted  me — aye,  and  his  child,  too !  If  I  had 
married  an  honest  man  that  I  could  trust  and 
respect,  I  should  have  been  a  happier  woman  all 
my  days,  and  my  hair  wouldn't  have  been  snow- 
white  before  I  was  forty." 

"You  poor,  poor  thing!"  murmured  Elsie;  "but 
you  must  like  to  think  of  the  time  when  you  were 
fond  of  one  another." 

"Not  I,"  snapped  Selina  Gotch,  severing  with 
her  even  teeth  the  brown  kernel  of  a  hazel-nut; 
"I  despise  myself  for  having  been  so  easily  de- 
ceived. If  women  were  the  judges  of  character 
they  are  supposed  to  be,  there  would  be  fewer 
miserable  love-marriages.  But  there,  wisdom  of 
all  sorts  only  comes  by  experience!" 

"You  are  a  very  strange,  queer  person,  Mrs. 
Gotch,"  replied  her  visitor;  "what  do  you  think 
of  it  all,  Hero?" 

The  reply  was  delayed;  it  ~ame  from  Mrs. 
Gotch  the  elder.  "Hero  went  out  of  the  room 
a  moment  ago,"  she  said.  .  .  . 

When  Elsie  returned  home — her  habit  was  to 
come  to  the  cottage  escorted  by  Justine  or  one  of 


AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL     187 

the  vicarage  servants,  and  to  make  her  way  back 
accompanied  by  Mrs.  Gotch  or  Hero,  or  even  by 
the  little  maid  Margaret — she  found  Paul,  who 
was  nibbling  brown  bread  and  butter  and  sipping 
tea  with  Patrick  Stuart.  "Bad  man!"  she  ob- 
served; "go  to  your  wife." 

Paul  sprang  up,  sending  a  spatter  of  the  tepid 
fluid  on  to  the  vicar's  Afghan  carpet. 

"Is  anything  wrong?"  he  gasped. 

"Oh,  dear,  no!"  said  the  blind  girl,  amazed; 
"I  was  only  poking  fun;  I'm  sorry  if  I  startled 
you/' 

.  The  young  man  sat  down  again,  relieved.  Elsie 
talked  discursively  for  a  while,  then  went  to  her 
den. 

"How  fond  Mr.  Gotch  is  of  Hero!"  she  mut- 
tered to  herself  as  she  mounted  the  stairs;  "it's 
only  when  you  love  some  one  very  much  that 
you're  so  ready  to  be  anxious  about  them." 

The  talk  of  the  two  men  had  turned  upon  the 
blind  girl.  Paul  was  remarking  her  extraordi- 
nary perceptions. 

"She  vibrates  to  the  tones  of  other  personali- 
ties," he  said,  "as  a  piano-wire  does  to  the  note 
of  a  violin.  Often  she  has  told,  in  some  inscrut- 
able fashion,  when,  at  one  of  her  daring  speeches, 
I  have  changed  countenance." 

The  vicar  heaved  the  profound  sigh  that  the 
mention  of  his  daughter  had  the  power  to  draw 
from  him. 

"Elsie  is  my  Frankenstein's  monster,"  he  re- 


1 88          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

sponded.  "I  called  her  to  life,  and  she  haunts 
me  with  a  double  tragedy — that  of  my  past  and 
her  present." 

Paul  did  not  speak  at  once — Patrick  Stuart's 
references  to  Elsie  were  always  enigmatic.  At 
last  he  said,  out  of  his  own  thoughts — 

"Fatherhood  has  in  it  an  elusive  mystery,  less 
coherent  and  more  empyrean  than  that  of  moth- 
erhood. You  remember  it  was  the  sons  of  God 
that  saw  the  daughters  of  men — at  least  in  the 
mythology  of  the  virile  Hebrew.  A  parable  of 
the  real  and  ideal,  is  it  not  ?  Yet  why  should  we 
make  one  male  and  the  other  female?" 

"Because  it  chimes  with  the  acutest  of  human 
experience,"  decided  the  vicar;  "in  the  average 
the  feminine  standard  tends  above  the  masculine 
one ;  but  the  humanity  at  the  top  of  the  spiritual 
scale  is  almost  exclusively  masculine.  And  it  is 
when  such  sons  of  God  see  how  fair  can  be  the 
daughters  of  men  that  there  issue  those  mental 
convulsions  which  leave  behind  them  the  wilder- 
ness of  sex-cynicism.  Nineteen-twentieths  of 
femininity  is  bred  and  broken  in  view  of  the 
known  characteristics  of  nine-tenths  'of  mascu- 
linity. The  idealistic  male  tenth  goes  seeking 
the  idealistic  female  twentieth,  the  unsatisfied 
fractions  in  every  generation  nurse  or  vent  their 
spleen  according  to  their  humor." 

"You  speak  bitterly,"  protested  the  listener. 

"So  shall  most  men  who  stake  their  spiritual 
all  upon  a  hypothetical  greatness  in  the  soul  of  a 


AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL    189 

woman,"  persisted  the  other;  "better  risk  your 
life,  as  duelists  have  done,  upon  the  turn  of  a 
card.  Elsie's  mother  was  a  silken  moth  impaled 
on  an  ideal — the  ideal  was  mine;  in  such  cases 
both  the  thorn  and  the  victim  are  sentient.  Per- 
haps she  was  more  than  a  moth ;  she  had  the  imi- 
tative genius  which  enables  the  player  to  reflect 
a  king,  as  the  dewdrop  reflects  a  star.  She  was 
an  actress — a  young  Frenchwoman — neurotic, 
generous,  feminine,  a  finely-touched  child,  insane 
with  vanity,  a  typical  histrion.  The  stage  was 
to  her  the  arid,  yet  tropical,  desert  in  which  alone 
life  was  possible.  Mastered  by  my  love,  my  pas- 
sion, my  grief,  she  abandoned  it ;  I  exchanged  my 
curacy;  she  discarded  her  theatrical  pseudonym; 
we  married." 

Patrick  Stuart  paused,  trifling  with  his  spoon 
and  saucer. 

"I  survived  the  next  five  years,  she  did  not; 
there  is  a  tragedy  in  a  quip.  Justine — Gabrielle's 
bosom  friend  and  companion — swore  to  her  to  be- 
come the  protector — from  me ! — of  Elsie,  our  one 
child,  the  ultimate  cause  of  her  mother's  prema- 
ture death.  To-day,  in  face  and  manner,  she  is 
the  infallible  reflection  of  Gabrielle;  her  mind 
has  borrowed  my  passionate  bent — for  I  am  pas- 
sionate, Gotch — and  added  it  to  her  mother's  pet- 
ulant shrewdness ;  Justine  has  made  her  a  creature 
of  the  obscurely  erotic.  Is  it  not  a  devil's  dance 
under  the  shadow  of  St.  Faith's  ?" 

He  ended,  biting  his  delicate  mustache;  then 


igo          A 

put  down  his  tea-cup,  go:  out  a  cigar  and  lit  it; 
the  tobacco  reduced  the  pulsation?-  of  the  heart. 
the  crimson  faded  from  his  forehead. 

Paul  fingered  his  chin,  lost  in  thought.  "But 
Elsie  is  your  own  flesh  and  blood."  he  said  doubt- 
fully:  "she  is  a  sensitive,  high-minded — I  had 
almost  said,  woman :  surely  she  counts  to  you  for 
much  in  spite  of  her  inherited  characteristics. 
You  love  her?" 

The  vicar  sneered — a  smile  and  a  gibe  in  one. 
"At  odd  moments,"  he  answered.  "Gabrielle  looks 
into  my  face  out  of  her  sightless  eyes,  and  I  do 
more  than  love  her — I  wrestle  in  an  agony  of  self- 
contempt  that  her  mother's  beauty  and  affection 
were  not  enough  for  me.  At  such  times  Elsie  is 
consoler  and  avenger.  At  others  she  recalls  to 
me  the  barbaric  vanity,  the  pagan  tolerance,  the 
ecstatic  luxury,  of  her  mother,  and  my  soul 
writhes  in  horror  and  disgust,  as  it  writhed  at 
Gabrielle's  feet.  Such  women,  Gotch,  are  hell's 
ambassadors ;  they  fire  in  us  the  artist,  the  evan- 
gelist, and  the  man,  and  bind  our  souls  in  triple 
cords  of  compromise.  I  tell  you,  Gotch,  Elsie  is 
the  bewitching  copy  of  my  most  subtle  sins,  mis- 
shapen, blind,  yet  beautiful." 

His  cigar  had  gone  out ;  he  re-lighted  it 

"There !"  he  said,  "I  have  blown  off  steam :  I 
knew  I  should  own  up  some  day,  and  surely 
enough  you  have  found  me  in  the  babbling  mood. 
Forget  the  fact  as  soon  as  possible ;  don't,  if  you 


AFTERMATH  AXD  GERMIXAL     191 

can  help  it,  anatomize  me  in  that  philosophy-box 
of  yours." 

"Indeed,"  confessed  Paul.  ''I  was  anatomizing 
myself." 

"As  how?"  asked  Patrick  Stuart,  with  the 
ghost  of  a  smile. 

"I  was  wondering,"  said  his  protc^gif,  dryly. 
"however  I  came  to  consider  myself  a  judge  of 
character:  I  owe  you  many  apologies." 

"The  heart,"  responded  the  vicar,  breathing 
out  a  wide  smokerring  and  watching  it  drift — 
"the  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness."  Again 
he  smiled — a  frail  yet  valiant  mirth,  and,  with  a 
bashful  grasp  of  Paul's  palm,  said  good-night. 
The  emotion  softened  his  face  into  a  poet-like 
youth  fulness. 

Outside  the  vicarage  Paul  got  upon  a  clanking, 
jingling  tram,  and  was  borne  town  wards.  He 
did  not  notice  that  Hero,  unattended,  was  com- 
ing down  the  cinder  path  from  the  cottage. 

Reaching  the  high-road,  she  turned  in  the 
direction  of  a  number  of  shops,  which  clustered 
together  somewhat  past  St.  Faith's.  As  she 
walked  on,  some  one  stepped  to  her  side  and 
stayed  there.  It  was  the  man  Jephson. 

.  "Don't  be  angry  with  me,"  he  said,  meeting 
her  eyes;  "I — I  found  out  where  you  lived  from 
one  of  the  girls  I  came  across.  I've  been  fooling 
round  for  hours  on  the  chance  of  seeing  you." 

Hero  was  thunderstruck;  as  Mahomet's  coffin 
hung  between  heaven  and  earth,  so  did  her  char- 


192          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

acter  between  the  bohemian  and  the  bourgeois — 
if  one  fretted  her  by  verging  on  the  stolid,  the 
other  terrified  her  by  unmasking  the  elemental. 

"Don't  look  like  that,"  begged  her  molester; 
"I  only  wanted  to  say  good-bye  and  ask  you  to 
wish  me  good  luck.  I'm — I'm  off  to  Africa;  the 
West  Coast,  Fluffy,  about  a  beastly  bridge :  I 
may  never  see  Old  England  again.  I've  been 
thinking  about  you  an  awful  lot  since  I  met  you 
the  other  day,  you  are  such  a  good  sort  and  as 
pretty  as  a  picture,  Fluffy,  by  Jove  you  are! — I 
stole  a  kiss  off  you  once,  it  was  a  rotten  thing 
to  do,  but  I'm  dashed  if  I  can  be  sorry  for  it." 

The  woman  was  recovering  her  senses.  "You 
musn't  talk  to  me  like  that,  Mr.  Jephson,"  she  told 
him,  with  a  simplicity  as  stern  as  it  was  moving. 

"Oh,  Fluffy,"  was  the  dismal  answer;  "why 
did  you  get  married  to  that  Gotch  fellow?  You 
see,  I've  been  finding  out  all  about  you ;  they  say 
he's  no  end  of  a  prig ;  I'm  sure  you  can't  really  be 
happy." 

"Please  to  remember,"  requested  Hero,  strid- 
ing'quickly  and  with  head  down,  "that  Mr.  Gotch 
is  my  husband." 

"Worse  luck !"  retorted  the  man  Jephson.  "By 
gad,  Fluffy,  what  a  jolly  time  you  and  I  could 
have  had  together ! — you  weren't  born  to  be  Mrs. 
Sobersides.  I'll  bet  you've  never  tasted  cham- 
pagne since  you  were  married." 

Paul  Gotch's  wife  stood  suddenly  still. 

"Mr.  Jephson,"  she  said,  "if  you  don't  want 


AFTERMATH  AND  GERMINAL     193 

to  make  me  hate  you,  go  away  immediately. 
How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that?" 

''It's  only  for  once,"  was  the  muttered  answer; 
"I  had  to  let  you  know  how  I  felt, — I've  been 
bursting  with  it  for  a  fortnight.  It  all  came  to 
me  when  I  left  you  the  other  day.  You  needn't 
be  so  hard  on  me,  I  dare  say  I'll  soon  pop  off 
when  I  get  out  to  my  job — it's  near  the  spot  they 
call  the  White  Man's  Grave.  You  surely  don't 
grudge  me  a  kind  word  to  think  of  out  there, 
Fluffy.  At  least  say  you  forgive  me." 

"Yes,"  yielded  Hero;  "only  go  away." 

"Don't  you  think  I  should  have  made  you  a 
decent  sort  of  husband  ?"  persisted  the  other.  "I 
know  the  ropes  a  bit,  Fluffy,  I  could  have  given 
you  some  fun." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't!"  cried  Hero;  "good-bye, 
please." 

"You'll  shake  hands?"  urged  Mr.  Jephson. 
His  request  was  granted  with  painful  reluctance. 
Her  soft  fingers  were  clutched  as  in  a  vice. 

"By  Jove!"  said  Mr.  Jephson,  rapturously; 
"you  are  a  pretty  little  woman.  Damn  Africa! 
would  you  like  me  to  come  back,  Fluffy? — per- 
haps I  shan't  croak,  after  all." 

Hero  evaded  reply  and  darted  into  a  neighbor- 
ing shop.  She  took  an  unconscionable  time  to 
transact  a  fractional  amount  of  business;  when 
she  came  out  the  man  Jephson  was  gone.  She 
went  back  to  the  cottage  with  her  head  in  a  whirl. 
Yet  she  was  vaguely  sorry  for  the  man  Jephson. 


194  A   SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

It  was  on  the  same  evening  that  Paul  Gotch. 
going  into  his  room,  found  the  lamp  aglow  in 
Hero's  "shrine,"  and  a  ruffle  of  white  cambric 
thrown  upon  the  rosy  lining  of  her  work-basket. 
He  picked  it  up — a  tiny  unfinished  garment ;  his 
eyes  shone,  he  kissed  it  suddenly;  then  laughed, 
both  to  and  at  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PHILOSOPHY    OF    FRUITION 

PAUL  GOTCH  was  lounging  to  and  fro  across 
the  floor  of  his  work-room,  a  meditative,  softly- 
perambulating  figure.  He  could  not  have  known 
it,  yet  his  feet  kept  the  invisible  path  upon  which 
his  father,  nearly  a  year  before,  had  indulged 
in  a  similar  sentry-go.  The  dead  man's  son  was 
thinking  of  his  progenitor  as  he  marched  now  and 
again  through  the  shimmering  plane  of  sunshine 
that  fell  from  the  window.  Once  he  sighed 
heavily. 

The  sigh  had  an  echo;  the  echo  was  a  little 
murmurous  sob,  the  drowsy  demurrer  of  sleep 
against  awakening.  Paul  Gotch  abandoned  his 
species  of  beat  and  went  to  that  screened  corner 
which  he  had  christened  Hero's  "shrine."  A  new 
piece  of  furniture  had  been  added  to  it — a  swing- 
ing cot  of  white  wire,  with  filmy  pink  draperies. 
A  ruddy  spheriod  dinted  the  pillow — the  tiny 
glowing  head  of  a  young  child.  Paul  laid  a 
hand  on  the  edge  of  the  machine  and  moved  it 
gently.  The  complaining  murmur  became  a  coo 
of  contentment  and  faded  into  silence.  The 
195 


196          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

watcher,  regarding  the  occupant  of  the  small 
couch,  yielded  to  an  ecstasy  of  thought. 

"  'Every  moment  dies  a  man, 
Every  moment  one  is  born,'  " 

he  quoted,  "and  yet  it  is  no  longer  fashionable  to 
ask  'Whence?'  or  'Whither?'  still  less  'Why?' 
Mysterious  atom! — are  you  all  transcendental 
dust,  or  do  you  boast  an  immortal  spirit,  impris- 
oned in  an  urn  of  mortality,  like  Scheherazade's 
genie  in  his  leaden  box  ?  Was  Pythagoras  right, 
or  is  your  soul  as  youthful  as  its  earthly  casket, 
a  very  fledgling  spirit?  Or  are  you  indeed  soul- 
less, one  more  of  Nature's  jests,  who  made  the 
interminable  wrappings  of  the  onion  to  envelope 
— nothing?" 

The  slumbering  object  of  this  apostrophe  fret- 
ted in  its  sleep,  poking  a  midget  fist  from  under 
the  padded  counterpane.  Paul  smiled  whim- 
sically. 

"You  dislike  the  idea,"  he  said  to  it;  "so  do 
we  all — we  even  weep  over  the  onion,  but  we 
have  not  invented  a  core  for  it,  as  we  have  a  soul 
for  ourselves." 

He  sat  down  in  his  wife's  chair  and  stretched 
out  his  legs  reflectively. 

"Your  grandfather  lies  in  Anfield,"  he  went 
on ;  "and  who  knows  if  that  is  the  end  of  him  or 
not?  The  church-bells  chime  to  him  across  the 
flats  from  Walton  and  Kirby,  Croxteth  and  Faz- 
akerly,  the  spires  point  to  the  sky,  the  parsons 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION      197 

preach,  the  people  sing  and  say  'amen.'  What 
did  he  think  about  such  things? — the  gray,  hard, 
selfish  man,  whose  bowels  melted  at  last  over  the 
son  of  his  loins — what  will  you  think  of  it  one  day, 
little  life,  where  still  burns  a  spark  of  his?  To 
be  born,  to  sleep,  to  eat,  to  drink,  to  beget,  and  to 
die ;  that  is  all  Nature  asks  of  man  or  beast.  And 
yet  we  wrap  our  heads  in  clouds  of  our  own 
breathing  and  say  'We  are  not  as  the  brutes.' 
How  do  we  know  it? — because  we  are  dissatis- 
fied with  Death — well,  have  not  dogs  howled  on 
their  masters'  tombs?" 

The  soliloquist  bent  over  the  cot  and  pushed 
the  frail  red  fist  with  the  tip  of  his  finger.  The 
minute  digits  opened,  then  closed  tightly;  the 
child  still  slept. 

"There,"  muttered  Paul,  absorbedly;  "I  shook 
hands  with  him  dead,  and  you  clasp  mine  living — 
so  three  generations  touch — three  men,  one  that 
was,  one  that  is,  one  that  shall  be.  Thus  shall 
sinner  slip  into  saint  and  saint  into  sinner.  How 
Cupid  sells  us  love  for  lives  and  gambles  with  his 
wages !" 

He  extricated  his  finger-tip  and  soothed  the 
protest  of  the  deprived. 

"Here,"  he  told  himself,  "four  lives  meet,  with 
four  million  behind  them,  and  all  that  ever  was 
since  time  began  has  made  for  this.  So  many 
wooings,  so  many  matings,  so  many  younglings, 
and,  at  the  last,  the  Babe  of  Babes.  How  Nature 
flatters ! — the  cynical  broker." 


198  A    SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

At  this  point  Hero's  rocking-chair  lost  its 
tenant,  for  her  husband  shook  himself  into  the 
actual,  marched  to  his  table,  took  a  pen  and  sat 
down,  resolved  to  abjure  any  further  meditation 
upon  paternity.  The  day  was  very  fine  and 
bright :  he  looked  at  the  arch  of  blue  firmament 
that  spanned  the  brickfield.  It  was  dappled  with 
flying  clouds,  the  sunbeams  swept  before  them  in 
patches  of  yellow — vivid  blots  that  eddied  across 
the  browns  and  greens  of  the  Gotch  estate.  The 
pug-mill  thudded  unobtrusively,  a  pale  haze  flick- 
ered about  one  of  the  long  kilns.  Once  more 
Paul  Gotch  lost  himself  in  reverie. 

A  footstep  roused  him  after  some  indefinite 
lapse;  he  turned,  saw  Hero,  and  smiled.  It  was 
at  such  moments  that  she  glimpsed  his  inexpres- 
sible regard  for  her.  Her  face  warmed  some- 
what with  an  answering  surcease  of  gravity ;  she 
paused  by  the  cot,  brooding  suddenly  upon  the 
little  flushed  cheek  and  forehead;  Paul  rose  and 
gained  her  side.  Together  they  stood  passively. 

"Isn't  it  an  odd  feeling?"  asked  the  man  under 
his  breath ;  "you  are  no  less  you  nor  am  I  less  I, 
yet  that  somnolent  morsel  is  both  you  and  I; 
what  sort  of  a  destiny  will  we  work  out  for  it, 
or  it  for  us?  The  Chinese  worship  their  ances- 
tors, though  they  are  the  only  indomitable  gods, 
and  the  worship  of  posterity  might  easier  produce 
more  in  the  way  of  results.  What  an  inspiration 
of  national  and  civic  rectitude  there  is  in  the  con- 
templation of  a  single  youngster! — I  would  put 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION      199 

up  the  innocent  countenance  of  a  child  in  every 
council-chamber  and  over  the  altar  of  every 
church,  yes,  on  the  top  of  the  Speaker's  Chair 
itself.  And  underneath  I  should  engrave  this 
motto — 'Do  What  is  Best  for  Me.'  " 

Hero  peeped  at  him — a  characteristic  glance, 
amused,  maternal,  a  trifle  admiring,  the  least 
fraction  reverent. 

"Oh,"  cried  her  husband  abruptly;  "I  saw  a 
good  name  to-day,  sweetheart ;  I  found  a  long  list 
of  them  in  a  cyclopaedia." 

He  reached  the  volume  from  his  table,  opened 
on  a  paper-marker,  and  ran  his  finger  down  a 
column. 

"Oliver  Gotch,"  he  said ;  "how  does  that  sound? 
— full,  round,  dignified.  Oliver  is  not  too  deli- 
cate for  the  harsh  monosyllable  which  follows  it ; 
I  think  I  should  like  Oliver  Gotch ;  you  could  put 
anything  before  or  after  it — Oliver  Gotch,  M.P., 
Oliver  Gotch,  Q.C.,  or  Q.C.,  M.P.,  or  the  Rt. 
Hon.  Oliver  Gotch,  M.P.,  or  even  Sir  Oliver 
Gotch.  It  would  sound  equally  well  as  Professor 
Oliver  Gotch  or  Dr.  Oliver  Gotch,  or  follow  a 
book-title  or  even  sign  a  poem,  though  Gotch  is 
hardly  poetical,  is  it?" 

The  mother  of  the  hypothetical  Oliver  was  ob- 
viously troubled;  Paul  noticed  and  interpreted. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "a  fig  for  Oliver;  I  abandon 
it  from  this  moment.  Let  us  call  him  Roland." 

The  quip  failed  to  reach  the  target  of  Hero's 
comprehension :  the  disconsolate  look  grew.  She 


200          'A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

sought  to  hide  it  by  stooping  over  the  open  pages 
of  the  cyclopaedia ;  her  husband  stroked  the  brown 
head. 

"Sweetheart,"  he  told  her,  "choose  a  name  that 
pleases  you  and  I  am  pleased.  It  was  your  life 
that  was  put  in  pawn  for  the  lad ;  you  shall  call 
him  Cholmondeley  Majoribanks  if  you  will." 

He  laid  the  volume  in  her  lap  and  stayed  watch- 
ing her.  Hero  scanned  the  double  columns  of 
small  type  with  a  face  of  indecision.  She  glanced 
swiftly  from  off  the  page. 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  call  him  Cyril,"  she 
said  nervously;  "wouldn't  you?" 

Paul  considered. 

"Cyril  Gotch!"  he  rehearsed  the  juxtaposition 
with  critical  care;  "rather  ecclesiastical,  isn't  it?. 
The  Rev.  Cyril  Gotch!  He'll  be  lucky  if  he 
escapes  taking  orders  with  that  name.  Yet,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  more  poetical  than  Oliver — 
Toems  and  Ballads,  by  Cyril  Gotch;'  it  has  a 
quaint  flavor,  but  I  don't  dislike  it.  What  made 
you  fancy  it?" 

"It — it  just  caught  my  eye,"  faltered  Hero. 

"Well,"  concluded  her  husband,  "since  you 
have  taken  a  liking  to  it,  Cyril  he  shall  be.  The 
name  has  one  advantage :  there  is  no  ridiculous 
diminutive,  such  as  converts  James  into  Jim,  or 
Michael  into  Mick.  Long  life  and  happiness, 
therefore,  to  Cyril  Gotch ;  may  he  inherit  his 
mother's  wits  and  his  father's  obstinacy,  may  his 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION      201 

ambitions  be  worthy,  his  sins  magnanimous,  and 
his  love  fortunate." 

There  was  a  note  of  abandon  in  his  voice.  Since 
the  birth  of  his  firstborn  his  imagination  had 
been  electric;  at  the  slightest  increase  of  tension 
it  began  to  sparkle  like  the  brush  of  a  dynamo. 

"I  must  really  begin  to  put  my  philosophies  in 
order,  sweetheart,"  he  remarked;  "it  isn't  good 
to  bring  children  up  without  a  religion  of  some 
sort,  and  they  haven't  any  sympathy  with  hy* 
potheses.  'Milk  for  babes,'  said  my  namesake, 
and  was  hopelessly  wrong  when  he  said  it;  it's 
the  children  that  need  the  strong  meat  of  religion 
— 'Thus  and  thus  was  it ;  thus  and  thus  is  it,  and 
thus  and  thus  shall  it  be' — not  a  real  'if  in  the 
whole  catechism." 

"I  don't  think  children  need  to  be  bothered 
with  religion,"  objected  Hero,  unexpectedly  cour- 
ageous. 

Paul  shook  his  head. 

"There  you  are  wrong,  little  woman,"  he  an- 
swered; "few  great  men  have  been  bred  atheist, 
though  the  greatness  of  many  a  priest-bred  soul 
has  made  it  turn  infidel.  But  we  must  learn  to 
believe  before  we  are  able  to  doubt  with  safety. 
The  child  is  suckled  before  it  is  weaned ;  it  creeps 
before  it  can  go.  We  build  from  the  scaffolding 
of  religion  the  temple  of  ethics;  we  win  the  ex 
parte  injunctions  of  morality  with  forged  affi- 
davits, and  there  is  no  trial  on  this  side  of  the 
grave." 


202          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

He  gazed  at  her  doubtfully. 

"You  see  I  can't  keep  my  head  below  the 
clouds/'  he  apologized  ;  "I  felt  just  then  as  though 
I  had  a  pen  in  my  hand.  Forgive  my  habit  of 
monologuing;  it  must  bore  you  horribly." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Hero;  "I — I  like  to  hear  you, 
only " 

"Only "  repeated  her  husband  with  a  per- 
suasive inflection. 

Hero  burst  out — there  was  with  her  a  perpetual 
choice  between  volcanic  self-revelation  and  an 
almost  sullen  reticence. 

"You  make  me  feel  so  stupid,"  she  cried;  "so 
ignorant,  so  little  and  mean;  I  wouldn't  care  if  I 
never  thought  of  the  things  that  you  worry  about. 
And  when  you  make  me  think  about  them  I  hate 
myself — I'm  not  fit  to  have  a  baby  of  my  own." 

She  was  driven  upon  a  gentle  weeping  by  the 
recoil  of  her  own  emotion. 

Paul  bent  over  her,  moved  with  her  vague 
affliction. 

"There  needs  no  more  scathing  indictment  of 
my  philosophies,"  he  protested,  "than  that  they 
make  you  shed  tears ;  I  am  always  terrifying  you 
with  my  scarecrow  thoughts,  standing  between 
you  and  the  sunshine,  as  I  do  now.  I  am  a  great 
fool — Life,  while  it  is  life,  should  think  only  of 
itself:  'It  is  a  comely  fashion  to  be  glad.'  Da 
you  know,  dearest,  I  am  half  in  mind,  like  Faus- 
tus,  to  burn  my  books — in  a  modern  equivalent, 
to  forswear  the  Baconian  method.  Would  it 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION      203 

make  you  any  happier  if,  like  Banqno's,  there  was 
no  speculation  in  these  eyes  that  I  do  glare  with  ?'' 

"You — you  needn't  sneer  at  me,"  Hero  had  to 
say. 

"God  forbid,"  said  her  husband,  alarmed ;  ''I 
was  sneering  at  myself,  who  can  not  be  contented 
with  all  that  should  make  a  man  happy,  but  must 
needs  send  my  wits  wandering  over  the  edge  of 
the  world." 

He  took  the  drooped  hands  into  his  own  and 
caressed  them. 

"How  you  must  despise  me !"  got  out  his  wife ; 
"you'd  have  been  much  happier  if  you'd  married 
some  one  who  was  really  clever  and  serious." 

"I  did,"  said  Paul,  banteringly;  "you  are  so 
serious  you  don't  smile  more  than  once  a  month, 
and  so  clever  you  can  pick  the  kernel  of  a  thought 
before  I  have  half  expressed  it.  Your  successor, 
sweetheart,  shall  be  a  fool  of  the  first  water. 
And  now  a  truce  to  gloomy  fancies  and  argu- 
ments ;  you  shall  go  out  this  evening,  baby  or  no 
baby.  Where  is  the  paper,  while  we  see  what  is 
on?" 

He  drifted  from  the  room  in  search  of  it. 

Hero  dried  her  eyes  and  scolded  herself  as- 
siduously. The  ruddy  little  head  drew  her  atten- 
tion, and  her  mouth  softened.  The  mother  in  her 
stirred,  and  her  expression  changed;  she  drew 
a  lingering  breath. 

"He  is  like  Paul  now,"  she  reflected — "now 
his  eyes  are  shut.  But  when  he  opens  them  he 


204          A  SON  OF  'AUSTERITY 

will  be  like  me."  She  knelt  at  the  side  of  the  cot. 
"Poor  baby,"  she  said,  "your  father  will  love  you 
more  than  I  shall ;  sometimes  when  I  look  at  you  I 
am  ashamed — you  have  no  right  to  be,  really — 
you  are  a  soft  little,  warm  little  lie,  baby  dear, 
and  your  father  believes  you.  Oh,  I  wish  I  were 
fonder  of  him,  fonder  of  you !" 

Paul  came  back  with  Mrs.  Gotch  the  elder. 

"I  have  been  telling  Cyril's  grandmamma  that 
he  is  Cyril,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  afraid  that  she 
will  require  reconciling  to  the  fact." 

"Not  at  all,"  retorted  Mrs.  Gotch;  "but  Paul 
asked  my  opinion,  and  I  admitted  that  I  thought 
he  might  have  chosen  something  more  manly 
and  less  like  the  name  of  a  character  in  a  novel- 
ette." 

"Paul  can  call  him  what  he  likes,"  flashed  Hero, 
from  the  depths  of  her  rocking-chair. 

"Excepting  his  famous  namesake,  the  Alexan- 
drian, I  have  nothing  against  Cyril,"  laughed  the 
authority;  "Hero  likes  Cyril,  and  it  is  her 
baby,  so  Cyril  it  shall  be.  I  feel  now  as  if  to 
re-christen  him  would  be  to  destroy  his  infant 
individuality.  No,  St.  Peter  shall  open  him  an 
account  in  the  Big  Book  under  the  name  of  Cyril ; 
may  the  balance  prove  on  the  credit  side." 

Neither  of  the  women  caring  to  pursue  the  sub- 
ject, the  decision  became  absolute  without  more 
ado. 

Despite  her  objection  to  his  "unmanly"  cogno- 
men, Mrs.  Gotch  was  more  than  willing  to  take 


PHILOSOPHY  OF  FRUITION      205 

sole  charge  of  her  grandson,  and  Hero  enjoyed 
her  evening  at  the  play  with  all  the  vivacity  of 
disuse.  Her  husband  put  an  arm  about  her  as 
they  drove  home. 

"I  have  just  discovered  that  I  am  jealous  of 
Cyril,"  he  said. 

Hero  started. 

"Why?"  she  demanded. 

"He  has  been  engrossing  too  much  of  your 
attention,"  explained  Cyril's  father;  "I  feel  that 
this  evening's  frivolity  has  taught  me  how  much 
of  the  spiritual  law,  as  represented  by  our  two 
youthful  hearts,  has  been  sacrificed  to  the  nat- 
ural world  as  represented  by  Master  Cyril." 

Hero  was  relieved  by  this  piece  of  exegesis — 
she  would  scarcely  own  to  herself  the  fact  or  its 
explanation. 

Arrived  at  the  cottage,  she  went  into  the  work- 
room to  warm  herself.  An  envelope  stood  on  the 
mantelpiece — an  envelope  with  a  foreign  stamp 
and  postmarks ;  she  opened  it  casually.  It  was  on 
thin  glazed  paper,  and  read — 

"DEAR  MRS.  GOTCH, — Africa  has  not  yet  done 
for  me,  as  you  see  by  this.  Indeed,  I  hope  soon 
to  be  in  England  again,  and  to  renew  some  old 
acquaintanceships. 

Truly  yours, 

CYRIL  JEPHSON." 

Hero  stood  gazing  at  these  simple  lines — fas- 
cinated by  their  coolness  and  skilful  superficiality. 


206  A    SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

Paul  came  in  from  hanging  up  his  coat ;  his  wife's 
eyes  glanced  from  him  to  the  missive;  suddenly 
she  realized  the  betrayal  in  the  Christian  name 
of  the  signature. 

"A  letter,  sweetheart."  her  husband  said ;  "what 
news?" 

Hero  crumpled  the  epistle  and  threw  it  into 
the  fire;  Paul  lifted  his  eyebrows  inquiringly. 

"It's  from  some  one  who  should  not  have  writ- 
ten to  me,"  answered  his  wife,  quiveringly ;  "some 
one  I  forbade  even  to  speak  to  me.  Please  don't 
ask  me  anything  more  about  it." 

"I  wont,"  said  her  husband,  lightly;  "aren't 
you  ready  for  supper,  sweetheart?  The  mater 
says  that  Master  Cyril  has  slept  like  a  top." 

Hero  winced  at  the  last  sentence  and  looked  at 
the  fire-grate.  The  final  ashes  of  the  consumed 
sheet  were  just  flickering  into  sable. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

NATURE     AND     CERTAIN     VACUA 

THE  child  Cyril  waxed  imperceptibly,  as  chil- 
dren do.  Asleep,  Hero  had  remarked,  he  bore 
a  marvelous  resemblance  to  Paul :  there  was  some- 
thing absurdly  man-like  in  the  full  forehead,  the 
deep  upper  lip,  the  stamp  of  inert  power  upon  the 
soft  cheeks  and  dimpled  nose.  But  when  the 
large  white  lids  swung  up  from  the  baby  eyes 
there  looked  out  the  lucent  blue  orbs  of  Hero 
herself,  as  strangely  characteristic  and  mature  as 
the  imagined  cast  of  thought  that  had  lingered 
about  the  sleeping  face. 

The  contemplation  of  this  innocent  duality  fed 
in  Hero  an  unusual  imaginativeness.  She  began 
to  weave  allegories  of  self-pity  about  the  little 
creature ;  that  blended  personality  seemed  a  wrong 
done  to  herself,  the  soul  that  looked  out  through 
those  azure  windows  was  part  of  her  soul,  a 
portion  of  her  spirit  rent  from  her  and  prisoned 
in  a  flesh  that  was  not  her  own  flesh.  Quietly  as 
the  currents  of  life  flowed  about  her,  she  herself 
was  a  whirlpool  of  thought  and  emotion ;  she  had 
ailed  somewhat  after  the  child's  birth;  pathology 
207 


208          A   SOX   OF  AUSTERITY 

could  have  mapped  her  present  mood  on  paper 
with  all  the  cogency  of  a  self-satisfied  material- 
ism; her  odd  regard  for  the  child  was  symptom- 
atic in  the  extreme.  The  tiny  countenance,  so 
amorphously  like  her  husband's,  begot  in  her  a 
kind  of  resentment ;  imperiously,  arrogantly,  it 
thrust  upon  her  its  continual  necessities.  Yet 
she  pitied  it  for  its  eyes. 

She  had  called  it  Cyril,  a  transient  folly,  that 
meant,  even  to  herself,  rather  less  than  half  of 
nothing.  A  sudden  rapport  between  the  printed 
name  and  a  tolerant  memory  had  set  her  tongue 
in  motion;  once  she  blamed  her  husband  for  his 
ready  acquiescence ;  truly  she  would  have  thanked 
him  for  some  fraction  of  that  masterfulness  he 
had  been  wont  to  use.  In  any  case,  having  sug- 
gested the  luckless  cognomen,  she  dared  not  show 
him  the  man  Jephson's  letter.  It  is  in  her  flip- 
pant humors  that  Fate  is  most  dangerous;  her 
jests  undermine  kingdoms. 

The  child  was  to  Paul  a  primeval  compliment, 
the  last  link  in  the  circle  of  masculinity ;  to  Hero 
it  was  the  final  fetter  upon  her  vanquished  indi- 
viduality ;  to  Mrs.  Gotch  it  was  a  nursling  and  an 
occupation;  to  Elsie  Stuart  it  was  the  key  of 
essential  womanhood.  When  it  was  laid  in  her 
arms  she  vibrated  with  a  new  passion,  she  glowed 
with  the  tremulous  ardor  of  a  Madonna.  The 
doors  of  her  heart  opened  for  it,  and  a  host  of 
eager  impulses  surrounded  it  with  extravagant 
attentions.  She  sang  to  it,  laughed  to  it, 


NATURE  AND  CERTAIN  VACUA    209 

romanced  to  it,  cooed  over  it — softly  as 
Cytherea's  doves — she  \vas  the  purest  of  Cythe- 
reas,  rapt  by  the  most  innocent  of  Adons.  Once 
the  child,  entrusted,  sleeping,  to  Elsie,  woke  and 
wept  assiduously;  Hero  took  it  to  her  and  stilled 
its  hungry  acclamation  with  some  hasty  nourish- 
ment. The  blind  girl  heard  the  determined  pip- 
ing die  into  a  flattered  sigh ;  a  paroxysm  of  un- 
conscious envy  gripped  her,  her  viewless  eyes 
widened,  her  mouth  parted,  her  cheeks  flushed. 
The  ministering  mother  glanced  up  and  saw  it; 
bitterness  came  into  her  mouth  ;  she  knew  of  what 
she  had  been  robbed. 

Elsie  was  interested  in  the  details  of  the  infan- 
tile existence;  her  inquiries  elucidated  a  lack  of 
reciprocal  warmth  on  Hero's  side.  Mrs.  Gotch, 
who  had  joined  them  at  the  sound  of  the  child's 
weeping,  protected  her  daughter-in-law.  They 
had  never  exchanged  a  word  beyond  the  compara- 
tively superficial,  these  two,  yet  they  understood. 
If  to  understand  be  not  quite  to  forgive,  as  has 
been  argued,  it  is  at  least  to  pity. 

"Babies  are  a  great  nuisance,  when  all  is  said 
and  done,"  put  in  the  elder  woman ;  "and  what  is 
far  worse,  a  great  responsibility/' 

The  blind  girl  sniffed,  disparaging  the  defense. 

"If  I  were  Hero,"  she  returned,  "I  should  like 
to  have  one  baby  for  a  while,  just  so  that  I  could 
enjoy  the  very,  very  own  feel  of  it,  and  then  I 
would  like  to  have  a  hundred." 

"Elsie!"  cried  Mrs.  Gotch,  incredulous. 


210  A   SON   ()!'    AUSTERITY 

"I  would/'  persisted  the  other;  "and  I  would 
have  a  big  warm  house  for  them,  with  soft  car- 
pets and  nice  cushions,  and  I  would  play  games 
with  them  from  morning  to  night,  and  I  would 
go  to  sleep  with  all  of  them  cuddled  down  beside 
me." 

"Indeed,"  said  Selina  Gotch,  with  grim  humor; 
"and  who  would  find  bread-and-butter  for  this 
infant  school  of  yours?" 

"Their  father,"  returned  Elsie  joyously — ro- 
mancing was  always  ecstatic  with  her;  "and  he 
would  be  a  wonderful,  beautiful  mystery." 

"He  would  if  he  kept  that  crowd  in  boots," 
interpolated  Mrs.  Gotch. 

"And  when  he  came  home  at  night,"  said  Elsie 
regardlessly,  "we  would  all  sit  round  till  he  had 
finished  his  dinner,  and  then  he  would  play 
games,  too,  and  sing  to  them.  And  when  the 
children  were  tired  we  would  put  them  to  bed 
and  sit  by  the  fire  ourselves,  thinking  what  we 
would  do  with  the  babies  when  they  were  grown 
up.  Oh,  it  would  be  lovely!" 

"Would  it?"  said  the  experienced  one;  "I 
should  like  to  see  you  try  it  for  a  week,"  and 
with  this  observation  she  went  back  to  the 
kitchen.  Elsie  fumbled  for  Hero's  chair  and  sat 
down  on  a  neighboring  footstool. 

"Aren't  you  a  happy  girl  ?"  she  murmured. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Hero,  smoothing  the  little 
gown  into  order. 

"If  that  were  my  baby,"  pursued  the  romancist, 


NATURE  AND  CERTAIN  VACUA    211 

"I  should  only  be  afraid  of  one  thing — squeezing 
it  to  death  out  of  love.  /  feel  as  though  T  had 
just  come  to  a  fine  dinner  where  every  one  had 
filled  themselves  up  and  were  just  drinking  coffee 
and  saying  how  grand  it  had  been,  and  as  if  no 
one  asked  me  to  sit  down  or  said  they  were  sorry 
I  was  late,  but  all  the  while  I  had  a  horrible  feel- 
ing of  emptiness.  You  are  lucky,  Hero." 

"Oh,  don't,  don't !"  begged  Hero,  and  choked 
on  the  remainder  of  the  adjuration. 

Elsie  heard  a  gasp.  "What  is  the  matter?" 
she  cried;  "I  didn't  really  want  you  to  sympa- 
thize." 

Hero  caught  at  the  pretext.  "You  poor  dear," 
she  asked,  in  a  pause  between  silent  sobs ;  "would 
you  really  like  to  be  me?" 

"Well,  no,"  answered  Elsie,  honestly ;  "not  you, 
but  I  should  like  to  be  you  if  I  were  I  and  Mr. 
Gotch  were  somebody  else.  Then,  of  course,  the 
baby  would  be  my  own.  But  I'm  not  lucky  as 
you  are,  I  have  to  be  content  with  loving  a  mys- 
tery." 

"That  sounds  very  unsatisfying,"  said  Herojx 
she  knew  sufficient  of  Elsie's  romance  to  be 
cautious. 

"You  musn't  be  told  any  more,"  warned  Elsie ; 
"I  gave  a  solemn  promise.  I've  tried  to  break  it 
already,  but  never  again !  I  felt  as  mean  as  mean 
could  be." 

"What  a  strange  girl  you  are !"  murmured  the 
other,  evasively. 


212          A   SON  OF  'AUSTERITY 

"Never  mind,''  said  Patrick  Stuart's  daughter; 
"it's  all  over,  my  knight  went  away ;  I  set  him  free 
and  he  went  away  forever.  I  heard  him  cry  as 
Dearie  did  once  when  I  vexed  him  awfully.  And 
that  night  I  cried  pints  myself,  and  the  next,  and 
the  next,  but  the  days  went  and  went  and  I 
stopped  crying.  You  won't  ask  me  any  more, 
will  you?" 

"No,"  responded  Hero,  and  kissed  her  pathet- 
ically. 

"Lend  me  your  baby  to  hold,"  commanded 
Elsie,  with  stern  self-constraint ;  "give  it  me  quick 
or  I  shall  burst  out  crying  now." 

The  warm  little  bundle  was  laid  in  her  offered 
arms;  she  rocked  it  instinctively,  crooning  to  it 
in  the  fashion  of  all  mothers. 

"Elsie,"  broke  out  Hero,  watching  her,  "tell 
me,  what  do  you  think  makes  us  love  a  person?" 

"Nothing  makes  us,"  decided  Elsie,  sapiently; 
"we  just  do  it.  It's  fearfully  bad  for  us  some- 
times, but  we  do  it,  all  the  same.  There's  a  sor- 
rowful song  about  it,  where  the  girl  says — 


and 


"  'Waes  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 
That  our  first  tryst  was  set;' 


'Waes  me  for  the  destinie 
That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae.' 


It's  a  funny  language,  but  I've  had  it  all  ex- 
plained to  me — it  means  just  what  I  told  you; 


NATURE  AND  CERTAIN  VACUA    213 

it  was  a  bad  thing  for  her  that  ever  they  met,  but 
she  couldn't  help  it,  she  had  to  love  him  in  spite  of 
it.  And  I  guessed,  somehow,  he  wasn't  a  good 
man." 

"Was  he  good  to  her?"  asked  Hero,  tenta- 
tively. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  the  commentator;  "it 
was  a  queer  song,  and  I  only  remember  bits  of  it, 
but  she  was  dying  because  of  something  he  had 
done  to  her.  But  she  only  asked  him  not  to  for- 
get her,  and  she  didn't  even  have  to  tell  him  she 
forgave  him;  she  just  hoped  he'd  be  happy,  and 
said  she'd  never  loved  any  one  but  him." 

"I  think  she  was  a  little  fool,"  declared  Hero, 
with  a  reversion  to  the  practical. 

"Exactly,"  assented  Elsie,  cuddling  the  baby; 
"every  one  is  who  is  in  love.  Justine  says  it  is 
the  most  beautiful  foolishness  in  the  whole  world, 
and  when  you've  got  it  you  quite  pity  the  wise 
folks." 

"I  wouldn't  go  on  loving  any  one  who  was 
cruel  to  me,"  insisted  Hero;  "if  they  were  cruel 
they  couldn't  love  me,  and  I  should  despise  my- 
self if  I  could  go  on  loving  any  one  who  didn't 
love  me." 

"You  couldn't  help  yourself,"  rejoined  the 
blind  girl;  "you  would  just  go  on  hoping  and 
hoping  that  his  heart  would  come  back  to  you. 
Sometimes  it  doesn't,  sometimes  it  does;  I  know 
lots  of  stories  about  cases  like  that,  and  .some  of 
them  are  so  sad  they  would  make  you  cry  on 


2i4  A   SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

your  birthday.  But  they  are  all  beautiful,  be- 
cause the  people  loved  one  another  once  and  were 
just  madly  happy  for  a  while." 

"I  don't  see  how  a  thing  can  be  beautiful  when 
it's  as  dismal  as  it  can  be."  complained  the  critic. 

"Everybody  has  got  to  be  dismal  some  time  or 
other,"  said  Elsie,  philosophically;  "it's  all  ac- 
cording to  your  fate,  the  thing  is  that  you  have 
been  happy.  Dying's  like  going  to  sleep  with 
the  toothache,  only  you  don't  waken  up  again; 
but  it's  not  so  bad  if  you  can  remember  some 
really  nice  times  when  you  hadn't  the  toothache." 

After  all,  there  was  something  of  the  Ironside 
in  the  listener;  she  revolted  somberly  against 
Elsie's  paganism.  Yet  she  saw  no  choice  be- 
tween it  and  reprobation  of  her  own  discontent. 
The  sullenly-indomitable  in  her  character  de- 
murred to  the  carnal  self-surrender  which  she 
diagnosed  in  the  blind  girl's  attitude  towards  the 
grand  passion.  Hero  herself  was  in  no  mood  to 
abandon  her  personal  quarrel  with  Destiny  for 
the  discussion  of  the  abstract :  like  Maeterlinck's 
obsessed  heroine,  she  was  not  happy.  All  else 
paled  into  irrelevance. 

As  often,  however,  as  she  intruded  into  that 
sub-conscious  debate  which  her  obscurer  faculties 
carried  on  in  continuation  of  her  talk  with  Elsie, 
her  sentimentality,  instead  of  groping  in  the 
future  for  some  desired  object,  reverted  to  the 
man  Cyril  Jephson.  He  was  the  only  male  upon 
whom,  by  chance  or  inclination,  her  halting  fancy 


NATURE  AND  CERTAIN  VACUA    215 

had  dwelt  even  for  a  little.  He  was  unexacting, 
boisterous,  loudly  cheerful ;  she  topped  him  men- 
tally with  ease,  yet  felt  herself  abashed  by  his 
sanguine  humanity.  His  eyes  had  appreciated 
her  without  infusing  that  homage  which  is  too 
supernal  not  to  be  embarrassing. 

By  degrees  she  came  to  trifle  wittingly  with 
her  recollection  of  him;  re-reading  "Marguerite 
de  Valois"  she  slid  her  personality  into  the  skin 
of  the  Duchess  de  Nevers,  discarding  that  of  the 
Queen  of  Navarre — the  red-headed  Coconnas  had 
more  in  him  of  the  man  Jephson  than  had  the 
gentle  La  Mole.  Other  changes  took  place  in  her 
sympathies;  the  presence  of  that  now  sedulous 
recollection  was  as  iron  secreted  near  a  compass, 
which,  in  deranging  the  needle,  deranges  much 
else. 

Had  a  wanton  fate  not  prompted  her  to  pro- 
pose Cyril  as  the  name  of  Paul  Gotch's  firstborn, 
even  had  that  signed  note  with  its  veiled  promise 
— half  threat,  half  entreaty — not  followed;  had 
Elsie  not  preached  Kismet,  Hero  might  still  have 
trailed  through  the  corridors  of  romance  in  Queen 
Margot's  ruff  and  train,  still  rescued  La  Mole, 
with  just  a  gleam  of  Paul  Gotch  in  his  handsome 
eyes,  from  the  drawn  sword  of  the  pursuing  Co- 
connas. As  it  was,  Coconnas  carried  his  red 
chevelure  with  the  braggart  air  of  Cyril  Jephson, 
and  Hero  regarded  him  with  the  tolerant  glance 
of  Henriette  de  Nevers.  So  largely  does  the 
mind  of  the  reader  bulk  in  every  tale ! 


2i6          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

She  spent  long  hours  in  her  "shrine,"  dram- 
drinking  with  fiction  for  intoxicant;  the  child 
slept  much,  the  cot  stood  at  her  elbow.  Paul 
would  peep  at  her  across  his  table;  he  worked 
quickly  and  well,  his  pulses  even  and  strong. 
Occasionally  he  paced  the  floor  for  exercise,  some- 
times with  Cyril  in  his  arms;  he  bantered  himself 
for  a  dry-nurse,  but  liked  it,  nevertheless.  Am- 
bition in  him  took  a  new  form ;  he  plotted  a  career 
for  his  infant  son.  His  best  friend  could  not 
have  called  him  a  romantic  figure  as  he  strode  up 
and  down,  a  gaunt  being  in  a  loose  frock-coat,  the 
child's  draperies  dangling  across  the  black  skirt 
of  the  garment.  Hero  laughed  at  him;  disre- 
spectfully, though,  he  should  have  seen. 

He  ended  by  misdoubting  her  indolent  calm. 
"Are  you  happy,  sweetheart?"  he  would  ask, 
pausing  by  her  chair.  "Of  course,"  she  would 
answer,  with  a  smile. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  of  what  went  on  inside 
that  pretty  head,"  he  confessed  once;  "reticence 
comes  natural  to  you,  does  it  not  ?  That  is  what 
I  tell  myself,  and  yet  I  wish  we  talked  more  to- 
gether: I  tried,  till  I  realized  that  our  conversa- 
tion meant  my  monologue."  He  laughed  nerv- 
ously. 

"I'm  sorry  I  don't  please  you,"  countered  Hero. 

Paul  flushed  deeply. 

"There  can  be  no  question  of  your  not  pleasing 
me,"  he  responded,  "as  long  as  you  are  well  and 
at  peace,  but  I  have  wondered  lately  if  your  life 


NATURE  AXD  CERTAIN  VACUA     217 

were  not  a  fraction  too  hum-drum.  Would  you 
like  to  travel  for  a  while  ? — we  could  afford  it." 

He  went  on  his  knee  to  look  at  her. 

Hero  stirred,  then  relaxed. 

"There  is  Baby,"  she  said ;  "you  can  not  carry 
a  child  about  at  that  age." 

Her  husband's  face  drew  into  a  spasm  of  regret. 

"Darling,"  he  whispered  pleadingly,  "you — 
you  don't  grudge  him  to  me?"  The  protest  was 
oblique,  yet  it  touched  Hero.  She  put  her  hand 
on  Paul's  shoulder;  their  gaze  met,  her  eyes 
swimming  with  sudden  feeling. 

"I — I  didn't  mean  it,"  stammered  her  husband, 
with  quick,  masculine  penitence. 

Hero  pardoned  him  confusedly — asking  herself 
many  things. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

UNMASKING    THE    ELEMENTAL 

PAUL  GOTCH  stepped  out  of  the  white  cottage 
and  walked  leisurely  towards  the  St.  Faith's  side 
of  the  brickfield.  August  was  come  again  with 
the  glowing  skies,  the  hot,  indolent  breezes,  the 
drowsy  shimmer  of  her  splendid  noons.  Twelve 
months  of  thought  and  feeling  annihilated  them- 
selves, the  exquisite  regret  of  pleasurable  memory 
vibrated  into  being :  once  more  he  was  wooing  his 
bride — a  bride  and  no  wife.  The  fretful  roar  of 
London  drummed  in  his  remembering  ears,  the 
mysteriously-recollected  scent  of  a  pink  tropical 
flower  in  one  of  the  hot-houses  at  Kew  fluttered 
his  breathing,  it  changed  to  the  dry,  harassing 
odor  of  Russia  leather— a  woman  in  black  lace 
had  worn  the  curious  semi-perfume  at  a  Hay- 
market  matinee,  in  the  next  stall  to  theirs.  In 
flash  after  flash  each  sense  dipped  into  the  store- 
house of  past  feeling,  electrified  by  the  indubita- 
ble thrill  of  high  summer.  The  soul  of  the  man 
emerged  tremulous,  an  old  pang  echoing  at  his 
heart :  his  lips  shaped  silently  the  name  of  his 
wife — endearing  adjectives  clustering  about  it. 
218 


UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL     219 

As  he  crossed  the  cinder-path  Paul  Gotch  be- 
came aware  of  a  fellow  that  lay,  chest  down- 
wards, on  a  green  knoll  commanding-  the  white 
cottage — a  fellow  in  a  smart  tweed  suit  and  bowler 
hat.  He  was  ostensibly  lost  in  contemplation  of 
a  penny  illustrated  journal.  As  the  observer 
flanked  the  observed,  he  saw  that  the  publication 
was  one  of  those  debauched  prints  begotten  by 
the  camera  upon  the  press,  and  whose  pages,  at 
the  moment,  Libidina  divided  with  Mars.  Paul 
Gotch  sneered,  expressing  a  silent  ferocity  of  pro- 
test; the  lounger  looked  up  in  time  to  catch  the 
sneer.  In  another  moment  the  long  limbs  of  the 
former  had  carried  him  past  the  spot. 

The  other  waited  till  his  critic  was  out  of  sight, 
then  rose,  and,  pocketing  his  paper,  advanced 
towards  the  small  house  from  which  Paul  had 
just  made  his  exit.  At  the  door  he  knocked  de- 
liberately; the  little  maid  Margaret  answered  it. 

"Is  Mrs.  Gotch  in?"  he  asked. 

"Young  Mrs.  Gotch  is,"  said  Margaret;  "the 
master's  mother  is  in  town." 

"That  will  do,"  she  was  informed ;  "tell  young 
Mrs.  Gotch  that  a  friend  wishes  to  see  her." 
And  the  speaker  stepped  into  the  Lilliputian  hall. 

"Yes,  sir;"  returned  Margaret;  "what  name 
shall  I  say?" 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  about  the  name,"  was 
the  reply ;  "say  it's  a  gentleman  from  Africa." 

"Very  well,  sir;"  answered  the  little  maid,  and 
showed  him  into  the  drawing-room. 


220          'A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

The  visitor  took  a  seat  and  lolled  therein  for 
an  instant,  then  made  a  tour  of  the  apartment, 
peered  at  a  book  or  two,  glanced  out  of  the 
window  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Beastly  dull  hole,"  he  decided;  "bet  Fluffy's 
been  bored  to  death." 

He  listened  intently ;  a  door  opened  and  closed 
not  far  off,  a  step  sounded  without,  and  slowly, 
reluctantly — a  figure  of  anxiety  and  terror — Hero 
entered. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence — a  second's 
interval  that  seemed  to  embrace  seonian  vast- 
nesses  ;  Hero  was  trembling.  At  length  she  said, 
fighting  for  a  simple  sternness — 

"You  should  not  have  written  to  me,  Mr.  Jeph- 
son;  you  should  not  have  come  to  see  me." 

"Dash  it  all!"  objected  Mr.  Jephson;  "you 
musn't  take  it  like  that,  Fluffy;  one  would  think 
I  weren't  to  be  trusted.  Can't  I  call  to  see  a 
friend  just  because  she  gets  married  ?" 

Hero's  eyes  reproached  him;  he  knew  that  she 
shrank  from  referring  to  the  nature  of  their  last 
meeting. 

"I've  had  an  awful  time  of  it  in  Africa,"  volun- 
teered her  uninvited  guest,  sitting  down;  "fever 
twice,  bitten  by  half-a-dozen  snakes,  and  got 
nearly  killed  in  a  row  with  a  nigger.  But  I 
pulled  through  everything  because  I  wanted  to 
see  you  again ;  I  can't  make  it  out,  the  hold  you've 
got  over  me,  Fluffy." 

"Mr.  Jephson,"  said  the  person  so  addressed, 


UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL     221 

with  pale,  pathetic  lips ;  "if  you  call  me  that  again 
I  must  ring  for  Margaret  and  ask  her  to  show  you 
out." 

Cyril  Jephson  stared,  then  laughed. 

"You  are  a  plucky  little  woman,"  he  responded  ; 
"well,  I'll  swear  off,  though  it  is  a  pretty  name 
and  fitted  you  down  to  the  ground  once.  You've 
changed  a  lot,  though,  by  Jove ! — I  don't  wonder, 
living  in  this  hole.  I've  just  had  a  week  in  Paris 
and  another  in  London ;  I  was  run  down  horribly 
and  needed  bracing  up — I  was  wishing  all  the 
time  you'd  been  with  me;  gad,  but  you  wouldn't 
know  yourself  when  you'd  had  a  few  days  with 
me!  But  there,  I  suppose  I'm  not  to  think  of 
what  might  have  been." 

"You  must  go  now,  please,"  said  Hero.  Her 
blue  eyes  were  like  stars,  her  cheeks  had  begun  to 
burn,  her  mouth  set  in  a  determined  line.  But 
in  her  soft  cheeks  there  were  unmistakable  hol- 
lows, to  betray  the  strain  she  was  putting  upon 
herself. 

"Don't  say  that,"  besought  Cyril  Jephson, 
whetted  to  desperation  by  this  firm  front;  "have 
some  mercy  on  a  fellow.  You  don't  know  how 
I've  thought  about  you  in  that  infernal  swamp. 
I  used  to  dream  about  the  Isle  of  Man  and  the 
fun  we  had  there.  Remember  our  boat  being 
caught  in  the  current  round  Douglas  Head,  and 
how  I  swore  at  the  johnnies  that  tried  to  help 
us,  and  would  get  her  out  myself  because  I 
couldn't  bear  to  look  a  fool  before  you?" 


222          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

Hero  drooped ;  the  picture  came  back  to  her : 
as  pictures  will  come  back — flung  upon  the  can- 
vas of  the  mind  beyond  the  power  of  words  to 
copy.  The  sheer  black  crags,  velveted  skyward 
from  their  verge  with  motley  greens  and  loamy 
yellow,  dotted  with  grouped  pleasure-seekers,  and 
crowned  by  a  castellated  clump  of  brick  and  mor- 
tar ;  the  dove-gray  piers  and  breakwater,  the  driv- 
ing spray,  the  swirling  undertow,  the  shouting 
boatmen  in  the  nearing  gig,  the  fierce  torso  on  the 
central  thwart  of  the  four-oar — hat  gone,  coat  off, 
muscles  starting,  face  scarlet  with  energy  and 
passion — a  Coconnas  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
For  an  instant  only  recurrent  admiration  over- 
came her ;  she  passed  from  it  into  calm. 

"You  forget  that  I  am  married,  Mr.  Jephson," 
she  said,  coasting  dangerously  near  argument. 

"Do  I?"  retorted  the  accused;  "I  wish  I  did. 
When  I  think  of  your  husband  I  could  wring  his 
neck.  He  can't  appreciate  you ;  I've  met  the  sort. 
I'd  have  given  you  your  fling — lord !  a  man  can't 
knock  about  the  world  as  I've  done  without  know- 
ing something  of  women.  I  tell  you,  a  woman 
wants  her  fling,  and,  by  gad,  if  she's  one  of  the 
right  sort  she's  bound  to  have  it." 

"I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  said  Hero,  distress- 
fully; "I  have  a  friend  here." 

"Dash  it !  I'll  bet  I'm  the  older  friend  of  the 
two,"  cried  Cyril  Jephson;  "you'll  let  me  be  a 
friend  still,  won't  you?" 


UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL     223 

"No,  no,"  begged  Hero ;  "please  go  away  and 
don't  come  any  more — ever." 

Denial  is  the  throttle  of  emotion — when  it  is 
absolute  it  raises  the  pressure  alarmingly:  the 
human  engine  has  no  competent  safety-valve. 
Cyril  Jephson  became  avid — he  fell  on  his  knee.- ; 
both,  which  was  a  mistake.  Paul  Gotch,  with 
more  courtly  instincts,  had  pleaded  his  cause 
upon  one.  The  latter  attitude  has  fewer  con- 
tacts with  the  humorous. 

"Don't  send  me  away  altogether,"  urged  the 
suppliant;  "I  can't  give  you  up  like  that,  Fluffy, 
I  can't;  you're  the  one  woman  I  really  want;  it's 
awful  to  think  I  must  let  him  have  you,  you 
know." 

"Oh,  what  am  I  to  do?"  cried  Hero,  meaning 
that  when  an  able-bodied  man  will  not  accept  his 
dismissal  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  get  rid  of 
him. 

"Say  you're  the  least  little  bit  fond  of  me," 
suggested  her  suitor  coaxingly.  His  face  was 
glowing,  his  eyes  devoured  her,  his  mustache 
bristled  over  his  powerful  teeth. 

"Certainly  not,"  was  the  immediate  decision. 

Cyril  Jephson  would  have  spoken,  but  Hero 
motioned  him  into  silence,  enforced  by  a  whis- 
pered "Hush !"  There  was  a  halting  step  in  the 
passage;  it  came  to  the  threshold.  A  moment's 
fumbling  and  the  door  swung  inward.  Elsie 
Stuart  entered,  carrying  the  chilti  in  her  arms. 
The  petitioner  had  gained  his  feet;  a  glance 


_-4          'A   SOX    iV   AUSTERITY 

showed  him  the  ::e\vcomer  \\ as  sightless :  he  re- 
ma  ined  mure. 

"Excuse  me.  dear."  said  Elsie,  "but  they've 
sent  for  me  from  home,  and  Margaret  is  busy 
with  lunch.  May  I  give  Baby  to  his  mother?" 

"Of  course."  answered  Hero,  blushing  furious- 
ly, and  accepted  the  small  burden.  The  blind 
giri  had  on  her  hat.  she  made  for  the  door:  from 
that  point  she  returned,  disengaging  something 
from  her  pocket. 

"Here  is  Cyril's  rattle,"  she  observed:  "I  am 
always  marching  it  off  with  me." 

"Thank  you.  dear."  murmured  Hero,  freezing 
horribly,  and  Elsie  completed  her  departure. 

The  man  Jephson  was  tucking  a  perspicacious 
smile  into  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  The  other 
saw  it  and  struck  out  desperately. 

"Mr.  Jephson."  she  whispered — a  clear,  sibi- 
lant threat,  like  the  voice  of  a  sword-edge  in  the 
air — "go.  or  I  shall  hate  you." 

"Then  good-bye."  she  was  told,  genially;  "but 
not — not  for  the  last  time,  eh  ?"  A  stride  or  two 
and  the  outer  door  dosed  softly.  From  the  win- 
dow Cyril  Jephson  peered  in.  Hero  was  sitting, 
a  figure  of  stone,  the  child  slumbering  on  her 
lap.  .  .  . 

So  far  as  her  superficial  consciousness  was  con- 
cerned. Hero's  mind  remained,  for  some  while 
thereafter,  a  more  or  less  perfect  blank.  But 
there  fell  occasionally  upon  that  raised  tablet  the 
shadows  of  a  vague  and  mysterious  cerebration. 


UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL     225 

The  shadows  themselves  were  no  less  vague  than 
fearful.  "Not  for  the  last  time,"  the  man  Jeph- 
son  had  said  to  her.  An  inference  from  the 
child's  name  and  her  apprehensive  tremor  had 
tempted  him  to  indulge  in  that  ominous  prophecy. 
His  discernment  made  her  angry,  yet  warned  her 
that  his  mood  had  become  dangerous — what  the 
word  meant  she  knew  without  thinking — it  had 
adumbrated  ignominy.  Elsie's  paganism  called 
to  her  wandering  mind ;  she  fled  from  it,  shiver- 
ing. For  her  the  springs  of  action  were  in  her- 
self ;  drawn  skyward,  she  hugged  the  earth ; 
dragged  earthward,  she  fought  to  fly.  Nor  had 
the  last  year  passed  over  her  fruitlessly.  Some- 
thing new  asserted  itself  in  her,  a  power  of  in- 
choate ethical  criticism ;  she  protected  Cyril  Jeph- 
son  from  it,  however,  and  feared  herself  for  doing 
so  as  much  as  she  feared  him  for  needing  it. 

One  thing  she  permitted  herself  actively  to 
cognize;  she  could  not  be  said,  in  any  feminine 
sense  of  the  word,  to  love  her  husband.  The 
tears  welled  up  into  her  throat;  she  pitied  him 
whole-heartedly  at  the  admission;  an  orgasm  of 
womanly  compassion  shook  her  into  a  sob,  she 
blamed  herself  for  her  inability  to  warm  to  him  ; 
yet  the  maternal  in  her  regard  for  him  lingered 
upon  her  palate  like  a  taint.  Once  she  had  almost 
loved  him — unwonted  comfort,  exaltation,  the 
pride  of  empire,  had  effervesced  into  a  beady  froth 
imitating  the  piled  white  foam  of  passion. 

Her  thoughts  came  back  to  the  child  in  her 


220  A   SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

lap — it  was  more  like  Paul  than  ever :  her  part 
in  it  seemed  suppressed,  hidden,  a  thing  unhal- 
lowed— her  body  had  been  tithed  by  Lticina;  not 
so  her  mind,  the  child  left  her  cold.  Paul,  on  the 
other  hand,  felt  his  pulses  beat  back  upon  his  own 
arteries.  Nevertheless,  Hero  remembered  his 
question,  and  knew  that,  in  very  truth,  she  did 
not  grudge  him  this  reflex  of  himself.  But  she 
herself  was  indifferent,  as  the  mirror  may  well  be. 
Her  unwitting  cynicism  was  profound. 

When  next  she  looked  down  at  the  child  it  had 
awakened,  and  the  serene  blue  of  its  delicate  orbs 
was  answering  to  her  own.  She  recognized  the 
fraction  of  herself  and  sighed.  Yet  she  felt  that 
she  did  not  grudge  that,  either;  she  had  taken 
deeply  the  imprint  of  Paul  Gotch's  character — a 
certain  breath  of  gentle  comprehension  was  the 
result;  at  times  she  flattered  herself  with  his 
ecstatic  passion  for  her.  Oddly  enough,  she  did 
not  regret  her  tribute  to  that  passion :  something 
in  her  had  smitten  him  with  a  kind  of  madness, 
the  fault  was  not  his;  she  had  liked  him  for  his 
uniqueness,  pitied  him  for  his  ill-starred  attach- 
ment, beguiled  him  with  a  counterfeit,  and  some- 
time self-deceiving  love,  and  paid  his  devotion- 
with — a  life.  A  quaint  idea  stole  upon  her  that 
so  she  had  earned  her  manumission. 

The  return  of  Mrs.  Gotch  and  the  belated  serv- 
ice of  lunch  broke  in  upon  her  confused  medita- 
tion; afterwards  she  complained  of  a  headache 
and  went  to  lie  down,  giving  the  child  into  the 


UNMASKING  THE  ELEMENTAL     227 

elder  woman's  care.  Selina  retired  to  Paul's 
work-room  and  perched  herself  in  the  sunshine  of 
the  window-bay,  dancing  her  little  grandson  and 
chattering  to  him  absurdly.  Her  theories  ex- 
hausted themselves  upon  matrimony;  childhood 
touched  in  her  a  vein  of  irresponsible  naturalism. 

Paul  arriving  in  due  course,  heard  of  Hero's 
indisposition,  and  came  up-stairs  to  draw  the 
blinds  and  prescribe  a  wet  bandage.  The  physi- 
cian lapsing  in  the  lover,  he  stayed  to  whisper 
and  condole.  His  hands  were  cool  and  firm; 
they  affected  the  dissembling  Hero  extravagant- 
ly. She  pretended  to  sleep ;  at  last  he  went  away 
with  elaborate  caution. 

Wearied  by  her  excitement  and  the  fatigue  of 
complex  thought,  Hero  fell  asleep  in  earnest. 
Nor  did  she  wake  until  it  was  verging  upon  dusk. 
She  rose,  put  her  hair  in  order,  and  descended, 
hungry  and  cramped.  Paul's  room  was  empty, 
her  "shrine"  dark.  She  passed  to  the  parlor 
across  the  narrow  hall.  The  door  was  not 
latched;  she  pushed  it  and  entered.  The  table, 
was  laid  for  dinner,  the  lamps  lighted.  In  a  big 
chair  sat  Mrs.  Gotch,  the  child  on  her  lap ;  it  was 
crooning  and  kicking.  Paul  leaned  over  it,  inter- 
ested and  amused. 

Hero  seemed  to  be  peeping  at  them  from  a -great 
distance — something  told  her  that  if  it  were  so 
they  would  be  no  less  absorbed  and  happy. 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    GORDIAN     KNOT 

A  DAY  or  two  passed;  the  normal  re-asserted 
itself.  Hero  slept  and  worked,  ate  and  drank, 
nursed  and  read.  Her  tendency  to  inertia  over- 
powered her  unrest.  A  sequel  of  the  recent 
strain  abode  with  her;  half  of  her  mentality 
seemed  asleep;  her  mind  enjoyed  a  dull  peace, 
such  as  a  fatalist  might  borrow  from  his  cynical 
creed.  She  lounged  in  her  rocking-chair,  a  book 
in  her  lap ;  the  gentle  stimulus  of  the  tea-cup  came 
welcomely  to  her  drowsy  brain,  the  sunshine  yel- 
lowed the  afternoons — half-comforting,  half-nar- 
cotizing her.  Sometimes  she  dozed. 

Paul  felt  the  heavy  dubiety  of  her  mood;  he 
studied  her  face  in  one  of  her  occasional  trances. 
The  woman,  he  saw,  had  dominated  the  girl, 
slumber  accentuated  the  broad  lines  of  the 
brow  and  chin,  the  white,  veined  eyelids  lent  the 
grave  countenance  an  air  of  the  largely  classic. 
The  mouth,  slightly  parted,  was  incongruously 
childish,  retaining  the  incipient  sob  which  he 
associated  with  his  first  observation  of  her ;  it 
drew  him  as  a  magnet  draws  steel.  Every  fiber 
228 


THE  CORD  I  AN  KNOT  229 

of  his  being  craved  that  mysterious  contact  that 
we  call  a  kiss.  The  lips  were  full  and  red,  curved 
appealingly,  the  upper  trembled  in  a  ripe  sus- 
pense, like  a  drooped  and  dewy  cherry. 

Her  hair,  dragged  somewhat  downward  by 
her  position,  fell  over  her  temples  and  ears ;  the 
little  pink  lobes  of  the  latter  swelling  from  under 
the  impromptu  bandeaux;  she  had  taken  the 
brooch  out  of  her  high  collar,  her  throat  quivered 
to  the  long  sighs  of  her  breathing.  Behind  her 
head  was  a  big  cushion  with  a  cover  of  silk  and 
velvet  patchwork;  some  vivid  tones  stared  her 
cheeks  into  the  most  delicate  modulation  of  that 
magical  nondescript,  flesh-tint. 

Paul  felt  that  there  brooded  about  her  a  sense 
of  self-contained  beauty  that  excluded  him  like 
an  abyss.  Her  almost  petulant  calm — the  ad- 
mission of  a  haunting  discontent,  shadowing 
though  forgotten — chid  him  into  suppression. 
Languor  became  in  him  a  paralyzing  grief.  The 
wedding  ring  on  one  small  flexed  hand  challenged 
him ;  he  stooped  pitifully — regret  is  more  master- 
ing even  than  passion — and  kissed  her.  The  blue 
eyes  opened  affrightedly ;  Paul  Gotch  saw  into 
their  pained,  unresponsive  depths,  and  something 
clamored  about  his  heart.  The  backwash  of  de- 
feated rapture  bellows  among  the  caverns  of  hate. 

Hero  saw  that  flash  of  madness  in  his  visage, 
and  a  great  pity  moved  her.  She  lifted  her  lips 
to  his,  pathetically,  entreatingly,  like  an  apprehen- 
sive child.  He  accepted  the  caress :  her  lips  were 


230          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

cold !  The  dew  had  fallen  from  the  cherry,  the 
feminine  had  faded  into  the  \voman. 

He  went  back  to  his  seat  and  pretended  to 
write. 

It  was  on  the  same  day  that  Hero,  passing 
through  the  hall,  received  from  the  maid  Mar- 
garet, who  had  just  taken  it  from  the  postman, 
a  package  addressed  in  a  clerkly  caligraphy.  She 
recognized  this  last,  and  her  nerves  grew  tense; 
she  carried  the  parcel  up-stairs  and  opened  it. 
Among  layers  of  cotton-wool  and  tissue-paper 
was  a  little  silver  cup.  A  note  accompanied  it. 

"DEAR  MRS.  GOTCH, — I  hope  you  will  allow 
me  to  offer  my  namesake,  through  you,  the  en- 
closed trifle. 

Trusting  soon  to  see  you  again  and  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  making  your  husband's  acquaint- 
ance, 

Believe  me  to  be, 
Very  truly  yours, 

CYRIL  JEPHSON." 

She  glanced  mechanically  at  the  cup ;  it  was  en- 
graved with  the  fatal  appellation. 

For  an  instant  Hero  hesitated  between  anger 
and  tears;  the  cool  deliberation  of  the  letter 
alarmed  and  offended  her,  more  of  the  former, 
however,  since  she  slipped  into  dejected  weeping. 
She  felt  in  herself,  and  feared  to  feel,  a  curious 
lassitude.  Yet  under  her  inert  bewilderment 


THE  GORDIAN  KNOT 

there  stirred  a  recently-developed  intelligence — 
Encladus-wise,  prophesying  doom  in  huge  trem- 
ors, scarcely  understood.  She  glimpsed  disaster, 
luridly. 

The  cup  peered  up  from  among  its  wrappings 
like  a  frigid,  contemptuous  orb,  mocking  her. 
She  saw  again  Paul's  countenance,  grief-wrung, 
suddenly  comprehending  Jephson's  broadly 
dominant,  disarmingly  good-tempered.  Imag- 
ination brought  the  two  men  together;  the  fan- 
cied juxtaposition  was  electrical ;  a  flash  of  hor- 
rible alarm  glared  across  her  thoughts;  in  that 
chill  and  vivid  illumination  she  perceived  a  way 
out.  So  might  lightning  among  mountains  show 
to  the  belated  traveler  the  sullen  but  opportune 
pass. 

She  went  to  a  bureau-drawer,  unlocked  it,  with- 
drew a  jewel-case,  and  lifted  the  tray.  Beneath 
was  a  flat,  parchment-bound  volume,  the  typical 
bank  pass-book.  The  balance  was  marked  in  the 
usual  penciled  figures.  There  were  nearly  sixty 
pounds. 

Action  was  foreign  to  Hero's  character,  but 
unaccustomed  qualities  had  been  integrating 
themselves;  she  found  herself  strangely  cool  and 
executive.  All  below-stairs  was  still,  lunch  over, 
the  tea-hour  yet  to  come.  She  sought  for  a  com- 
pact Gladstone  bag  and  began  to  pack  it  with 
necessities.  Seeking  for  some  linen,  she  met  with 
a  pile  of  tiny  garments ;  a  wave  of  emotion  rolled 
over  her.  She  had  remembered  the  child! 


232          'A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

\Yith  the  recollection  came  also  the  realization 
of  her  so  trifling  yet  momentous  folly;  the  child 
was  Paul's  son,  and  it  bore  the  Christian  name  of 
Cyril  Jephson.  If  her  husband  knew  ! — she  hor- 
rified herself  with  the  contingency.  To  petition 
the  man  Jephson  for  secrecy  occurred  to  her.  only 
to  be  repudiated;  a  blind  instinct  of  self-respect 
fought  with  a  flattering  whisper  that  in  a  moment 
she  could  bend  him  to  her  will. 

The  child  was  but  little  to  her;  she  confessed 
the  fact  without  shame,  of  the  kind  conventionally 
probable;  what  shame  she  experienced  was  that 
it  could  be  without  her  warming  to  it.  But  con- 
templating Paul's  futile  tenderness,  she  was 
almost  pleased  that  she  need  not  leave  him  utterly 
lacking  some  part  of  her.  Mrs.  Gotch  would 
rear  it;  it  would  grow  to  the  masculine  stock,  a 
frail  scion  hardened  into  their  stern  vigor.  She 
would  be  best  absent  from  the  hardening  process ; 
she  was  herself  a  wilding,  sensuous  plant.  The 
perception,  not  the  simile,  wras  Hero's. 

She  sat  down  to  write  to  her  husband;  then 
the  tears  fell  swift  and  hot — tears  of  mingled 
self-reproach  and  compassion,  the  gentler  mood 
for  him :  she  knew  that  she  .was  doing  a  cruel 
and  a  foolish  thing,  yet  knew  also  that  she  had 
been  wronged  in  the  beginning,  and  that  out  of 
that  wrong  had  sprung  both  pain  and  folly.  Not 
that  she  passed  any  verdict  upon  Paul;  she  sor- 
rowed for  that  impetuous  love  which  had  so  fruit- 
lessly enforced  her.  As  she  fastened  the  envelope 


THE  GORD1AN  KNOT  233 

a  novel  pang  was  born  at  her  heart  and  stayed 
with  her  many  days. 

She  completed  her  packing,  secured  the  bag 
and  hid  it  in  a  closet  on  the  landing.  Conceiving 

*j  o 

no  other  way  to  dispose  of  the  silver  cup.  she  put 
it  in  a  corner  of  the  Gladstone ;  her  letter  to  Paul 
she  laid  by  till  she  should  need  to  use  it. 

These  grimly  coherent  preparations  constituted 
the  first  spontaneous  exercise  of  her  own  will 
during  more  than  a  year;  already  she  felt  the 
better  for  them. 

Elsie,  inviting  herself  to  tea,  found  Mrs.  Gotch 
out,  of  which  fact  Margaret  informing  her  young- 
er mistress,  recalled  Hero  from  her  melancholy 
seclusion. 

The  blind  girl  was  exuberant ;  a  wonderful  hat 
— cardinal  bows  and  black  tips — and  a  cardinal 
blouse  made  her  curiously  modern ;  her  perpetual 
cloak,  a  wrap  in  winter,  a  light  dust-screen  in 
summer,  was  drawn  about  her,  theater- fashion, 
disguising  her  blemished  shoulders.  Her  face 
was  coquettish,  her  temper  mirthful.  She  had 
several  drooping  purple  plumes  of  heliotrope  at 
her  breast ;  their  scent  floated  from  her. 

"How  smart  we  are!"  said  Hero,  kissing  her 
guest ;  "I  shall  have  to  make  up  to  Justine  myself 
one  of  these  days."  A  casual  phrase,  this  last, 
unwittingly  stumbled  into,  though  it  left  her 
shivering. 

"Justine's  a  dear,"  responded  Elsie;  "don't  you 
like  my  flowers?" 


234          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"They  are  lovely!"  her  hostess  told  her;  "but 
they  are  too  sweet;  they  would  make  my  head 
ache  if  I  were  to  wear  them."  She  added  con- 
siderately: "They  are  just  perfect  a  little  dis- 
tance away/' 

"That  is  the  difference  between  you  and  me !" 
vouchsafed  the  other;  "I  like  very  sweet  sw'eets 
and  you  don't,  I  like  very  sad  sadnesses  and  you 
don't,  I  like  ever-so-muchness  of  all  sorts,  be- 
twixt-and-betweens  only  worry  me.  Shall  I  tell 
you  something?" 

"Do,"  answered  Hero. 

"My  flowers,"  whispered  Elsie,  "are  a  mys- 
tery." 

"That  isn't  very  clear,"  answered  the  recipient 
of  this  vague  confidence. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  the  blind  girl ;  "but  that's 
why  I  am  so  happy  to-day — I  could  sing  my  head 
off  with  happiness." 

Hero  said  no  more ;  Elsie  loved  an  atmosphere 
of  bewilderment. 

"Where's  Baby?"  inquired  the  wearer  of  the 
heliotrope. 

"Asleep  in  the  other  room,"  was  the  reply. 

"Oh !"  said  Elsie,  disappointed  but  reconciled — 
a  child's  slumbers  are  sacred. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  him,  Elsie?"  asked 
Hero,  abruptly. 

"Of  course !"  The  answer  was  almost  startled. 
"I  never  knew  much  about  babies  before ;  it's  such 
a  beautiful  feeling  when  you've  got  the  dear  in 


THE  GORDIAN  KNOT  235 

your  arms.  Often  and  often  since  I've  wished 
I  had  one  of  my  own.  Once  I  told  Justine  I  did, 
and  she  said,  'Heaven,  petite,  you  must  not  tell 
all  the  world  that.'  " 

Hero  sat  down  on  the  floor  at  the  blind  girl's 
side. 

"If  anything  ever  happens  to  me,  Elsie,"  she 
began  slowly,  "you  will  go  on  being  very  fond  of 
Baby  for  my  sake.  You  are  happier  than  Paul 
or  Mrs.  Gotch;  somehow  or  other,  it  seems  as  if 
ordinary  people  couldn't  be  happy  without  being 
wicked,  but  you  aren't  ordinary." 

"I'm  nothing  to  boast  about,  if  you  ask  me!" 
interjected  Elsie;  "I'm  sly  and  cunning,  and 
selfish  and  deceitful  and 

"S-s-sh,  dear!"  cried  Hero;  "what  nonsense!" 

"I  am,"  persisted  the  confessee;  "and  what  is 
most  awful,  I  enjoy  being  all  of  them.  When  I 
think  what  I've  done  that  Justine  and  Dearie 
don't  dream  about,  it  warms  me  like  the  hot  port 
wine  they  used  to  give  me  when  I  was  ill.  You 
should  see  how  I  wheedle  Justine  to  tell  me 
stories  about  bad  people.  And  when  I'm  alone  I 
turn  myself  into  those  bad  people. and  do  it  all 
over  again  in  my  head." 

Hero  pondered — there  was  indeed  a  note  of 
diablerie  in  the  blind  girl's  mobile  humanity. 

"But  there !"  decided  Elsie,  "I  shall  always  love 
that  baby  of  yours.  He's  the  only  thing  that 
ever  makes  me  ashamed  of  myself;  if  he  were 
mine  I  should  want  him  to  grow  up  into  a  splen- 


236          'A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

did  man,  as  gentle  as  Dearie,  but  much,  much 
more  honest — as  honest  as  Air.  Gotch,  even,  but 
happier,  and  as  beautiful  and  as  brave  as  Lohen- 
grin :  Lohengrin  is  nearly  my  ideal,  but  Elsa  was 
a  little  fool.  It's  when  I  think  what  a  wonder- 
ful man  I  should  want  a  baby  of  mine  to  be  that 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  If  he  knew  what  I 
was  like  inside  he'd  be  ashamed  of  his  mother." 

Hero's  eyes  were  full  of  tragic  re-consideration ; 
she  trembled  at  the  thought  of  that  packed  Glad- 
stone up-stairs.  The  crisis  of  her  hesitation 
was  broken  by  a  conventional  tapping;  Hero  re- 
plied to  it. 

"A  gentleman  to  see  you,  ma'am,"  announced 
Margaret,  and  held  the  door  wide.  Cyril  Jeph- 
son  entered,  hat  off  and  bowing ;  seeing  that  Hero 
was  not  alone  he  began  upon  a  formal  sentence. 

She  caught  at  Elsie's  hand  and  sprang  up, 
gripping  it  tightly. 

"Margaret,"  she  said  in  a  thin,  high-pitched 
voice,  so  strange  that  all  three  listeners  started, 
"you  are  mistaken,  I  am  not  at  home  to  any  one." 

The  man  Jephson  lost  his  nerve;  this  proud, 
fierce,  pallid  woman  was  no  kin  of  little  Fluffy, 
"improver"  to  the  millinery.  He  mumbled  a 
hasty  apology  and  beat  a  retreat,  escorted  by  the 
astounded  Margaret.  The  victor  remained 
standing,  mute  and  rigid. 

"Hero,  Hero!"  cried  Elsie,  alarmed;  "Hero, 
darling,  what  is  the  matter?"  But  Hero  only 
fell  on  her  knees  and  wept.  The  blind  girl 


THE  GORDIAN  KNOT  237 

smoothed  the  curls  on  her  friend's  temples.  At 
last  the  weeper  quieted. 

"You  won't  mind  my  not  asking  you  to  stay 
to  tea?"  Hero  besought  her  visitor;  "if  I  do,  Paul 
will  see  what  a  state  I'm  in;  if  you  don't,  I  can 
send  him  in  a  cup  and  go  and  lie  down." 

Elsie  kissed  her  and  got  up  promptly. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,"  sobbed  Hero ;  "I've 
done  what's  right,  so  don't  trouble  about  me  in 
the  least;  I  shall  get  over  it." 

The  blind  girl  hugged  her  tenderly  and  turned 
homewards  with  the  wondering  maid.  Mar- 
garet's mistress  went  up-stairs  and  bathed  her 
face  pertinaciously. 

Then  she  got  out  her  check  and  pass-books  and 
slipped  them  with  some  loose  money  into  the 
pocket  of  a  durable  black  gown,  which  she  donned 
with  eager  speed.  Soon  she  was  creeping  down 
the  narrow  flight  which  led  to  the  hardly  less 
narrow  hall  of  the  cottage.  Each  step  creaked 
noisily;  she  felt  the  Gladstone  bag  heavy  in  the 
extreme. 

A  moment  she  paused  outside  the  door  of  her 
husband's  room ;  she  heard  him  cough  and  move 
his  chair — a  trick  he  had  when  re-addressing 
himself  to  his  work.  The  quiet  of  the  place,  the 
sun  streaming  through  the  semi-circular  fan-light^ 
the  warm  familiarity  of  the  grouped  doors  and 
stairway,  all  impressed  her  regretfully — the  fact 
surprised  her. 

She  hurried  across  the  chicken-yard  at  the  rear, 


238          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

fluttering  its  feathered  folk  with  her  flying  skirts, 
and  let  herself  out  at  the  rough  wooden  exit;  it 
had  to  be  locked  after  her  and  the  key  pushed 
under. 

Her  direction  lay  not  to  St.  Faith's,  but  from 
it.  She  made  for  the  more  definitely  suburban 
road  which  ran  along  the  other  flank  of  the 
meadow.  To  the  west  of  the  cottage  its  north- 
ern frontier  undulated  markedly ;  the  hollows  con- 
cealed her  from  possible  observation.  As  she 
traversed  it  she  was  conscious  that  the  once  repel- 
lent prospect  was  also  not  without  its  claim  upon 
her  regret.  The  sky  over  it  was  splendidly 
ample,  the  air  fresh  and  cleanly :  the  diversity  of 
the  land  picturesque — a  certain  solitude  lent  it 
distinction. 

At  the  western  border  she  stopped  to  glance 
back,  drawn  by  cords  she  had  not  dreamed  could 
be  so  strong.  Then  she  called  upon  herself  to 
be  resolved,  and,  mounting  a  lumbering  omnibus, 
was  carried  the  first  stage  of  her  momentous 
journey.  At  half-past  two  o'clock  she  reached 
a  branch  bank  and  cashed  a  check  for  the 
whole  of  her  balance.  A  cab  bore  her  thence  to 
St.  James's  Street,  to  be  whirled  under  the  bed 
of  the  river.  From  the  Great  Western  she  took 
a  ticket  to  the  Metropolis, — the  less-favored  route 
did  her  judgment  credit.  An  hour  to  wait 
dragged  painfully,  but  ended  at  length;  the  ex- 
press passed  through  Chester  in  the  mellow  fall 
of  the  evening. 


THE  GORDIAN  KNOT  239 

From  what  was  she  flying? — she  could  not, 
would  not  have  told.  There  was  that  in  her 
which,  boggling  at  the  Gordian  knot,  had  cut  it, 
as  Alexander  did. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

HOPE    OUT    OF    HELL 

THIS  was  Hero's  letter — written  in  a  simple, 
almost  childish  hand.  At  the  beginning  it  was 
neat,  at  the  end  it  verged  on  the  illegible. 

"Mv  DEAR  HUSBAND, 

[There  was  a  spoiled  sheet  on  the  dressing- 
table  where  she  had  worked — a  sheet  bearing 
these  words,  canceled;  yet  she  had  returned  to 
the  phrase.] 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  very  miserable, 
and  I  hate  myself  for  it.  I  am  going  away  from 
you,  yes,  and  from  Baby ;  he  belongs  to  you  most, 
he  is  not  really  mine.  I  have  enough  money; 
with  Baby  coming,  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  spent 
anything  much;  what  you  give  me  has  quite 
mounted  up — sixty  pounds. 

I  am  going  away  quite  alone;  but,  dear,  do  I 
need  to  say  that  ?  If  only  I  could  have  loved  you 
I  should  have  been  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world ; 
I  did  not  think  there  were  any  men  like  you.  I 
have  tried  to  love  you ;  sometimes  I  have  thought 
240 


HOPE  OUT  OP  HELL  241 

I  had  got  to,  only  for  a  feeling  that  I  didn't  want 
the  things  that  you  did.  I  expect  it's  the  way  I 
was  hrought  up. 

There  is  another  reason  for  me  going  away. 
If  I  stopped  you  would  learn  to  despise  me :  up 
to  now  I  haven't  done  anything  very  wrong,  only 
mean  and  contemptible,  but  I  might.  I  wish  you 
didn't  love  me,  but  I  want  you  to  be  able  to  think 
well  of  me. 

Don't  try  and  find  me.  please ;  I  can  earn  my 
living  easily  now.  I  know  you  would  rather  I 
let  you  look  after  me,  but  I  should  hate  that.  It 
will  do  me  good  to  struggle  a  bit. 

Please  don't  think  I  regret  anything,  espe- 
cially Baby.  I  am  a  little  fool  for  running  away, 
but  it  is  better  for  a  woman  to  be  a  fool  than 
wicked.  Don't  blame  yourself  ever  about  me,  if 
I  were  worth  it  I  should  have  been  able  to  be 
happy  with  you.  A  sensible  woman  would  give 
the  world  to  have  a  man  like  you  love  her.  Per- 
haps when  I'm  older  and  have  worked  the  non- 
sense out  of  myself  I'll  come  back  to  you  if  you 
will  let  me. 

Now  good-bye,  dear ;  I  do  love  you,  somehow, 
that's  why  I'm  going  away  to  hide  myself. 

HERO. 

P.S. — I  am  glad  Baby  has  my  eyes." 

Paul  Gotch  mastered  mechanically  the  contents 
of  the  four  small  pages;  his  brain  sought  to  as- 
sume surprise,  but  his  heart  rejected  the  emotion. 


242  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

Certain  of  the  sentences  fell  on  him  as  the  indict- 
ment falls  on  the  ears  of  the  guilty.  He  had 
known  all  along  that  he  was  but  as  one  who  cele- 
brates a  victory  in  the  castle-yard  with  the  keep 
unwon.  And  now  from  that  stern  tower  had 
poured  out  a  desperate  sortie,  with  shocks  of 
doom. 

He  laid  the  sheet  down  (  Margaret  had  brought 
it  to  him,  finding  her  mistress  gone  and  the  en- 
velope in  a  conspicuous  place)  and  grappled  with 
the  imminent  tragedy.  So  he  had  failed  to  mas- 
ter that  proud  spirit,  that  sullen  yet  persistent 
individuality.  From  its  silver  shield  the  gleam 
of  his  own  passion  had  come  back  to  him  in  a 
treacherous  radiance,  beguiling  yet  unwarming. 
The  fact  shouted  itself  into  his  ear;  he  cringed 
from  a  hideous  realization ;  the  sin«of  the  violator 
was  his,  his  its  black  self-indulgence,  its  irrepar- 
able wrong,  its  loathing  frenzy  of  remorse.  The 
idolized  moments  of  the  past  avenged  themselves 
in  shivering  paroxysms  of  reproach.  The  still 
countenance,  the  soft  maternal  contours,  un- 
touched by  ecstasy,  the  virginal  blue  eyes,  gentle 
yet'  enduring — he  cried  upon  himself  as  Cain  did. 
That  she  should  need  to  seek  in  flight  the  isolation 
at  which  she  so  sadly  hinted — the  shame  of  it 
struck  him  to  the  earth,  his  cloak  of  pride  torn 
from  him  as  .he  fell.  And  still  the  avenging 
memories  rolled  over  him,  passing  explosively 
from  the  positive  to  the  negative  of  recollection ; 
the  poignant  thrill  invaded  intolerably  hour  after 


HOPE  OUT  OF  HELL  243 

hour  of  the  cherished  past.  The  hoarded  wine  of 
recollection  became  disgustful  gall. 

Meanwhile  intelligence  analyzed  automatically 
the  essentials  of  the  letter.  A  detail  focused  sud- 
denly; she  had  gone  away  to  hide  herself,  and, 
in  doing  so,  warned  him  of  her  suspicion,  that 
— somewhat,  and  indescribably — she  loved  him. 
Also  her  flight  was  foolish,  yet  she  had  chosen 
folly  to  wickedness.  A  stealing  calm  penetrated 
the  thinker's  wounded  consciousness;  it  was  not 
wholly  from  him  that  she  had  fled.  From  her- 
self, then? — that  was  impossible,  save  by  a  trite 
figure  of  speech.  From  another  ?  It  was  a  fiend 
among  thoughts ;  yet  he  entertained  it,  gathering 
illumination.  Except  some  rival  fantasy  had 
captained  Hero's  wayward  impulses  he  would 
have  tamed  them,  drugged  with  tenderness  and 
peace,  to  his  own  pleasure.  The  argument  was 
a  rack  to  wrench  him  limb  from  limb,  but  he 
flung  himself  upon  it. 

Balm  for  his  bruises!  How  innocently  she 
praised  him — her  husband !  no  nobler  shadow  fell 
across  him ;  he  had  magnetized  her  spirit — it  still 
pointed  loyally  to  him,  the  needle  to  the  pole. 
What  other  influence  had  biased  her  fate? — she 
feared  it,  whatever  it  was :  in  flying  she  had  pre- 
ferred folly  to  evil.  Had  she  loved  she  would 
have  stayed,  being  safe.  Love  only  can  protect 
from  love — and  that  which  masquerades  as  love. 
A  bitter  cry  broke  from  his  lips;  she  had  then 
fled  from  love  and  a  love  that,  leaving  her  ideals 


244          rA   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

faithful  to  their  former  liege,  proclaimed  itself 
love's  counterfeit.  The  pangs  of  a  too  utter  deso- 
lation laid  hold  upon  Paul  Gotch. 

Nevertheless  he  plucked  re-assurance  out  of 
them.  He  had  prophesied  rightly — the  cliff  or 
the  quagmire ;  the  choice  had  been  made,  the  best 
road  taken.  He  had  turned  her  life  aside  to  the 
catastrophe ;  she  had  met  it  with  that  native  mag- 
nanimity which  he  had  thought  to  discern  in  her. 
She  had  gone  away  quite  alone — "Do  I  need  to 
say  that?"  whispered  the  scarcely-dried  ink.  His 
eyes  wetted,  his  mouth  gripped  at  its  outrushing 
grief,  his  soul  sprang  up,  passionate,  vindicating. 
By  God !  she  did  not  need ;  there  had  been  that 
between  them  which  had  opened  the  windows  of 
her  personality — her  heart  shrank  from  him, 
cowed  by  fate,  mischance,  the  whimsical  choices 
of  the  flesh,  but  her  soul  had  walked  with  him  as 
a  friend.  She  should  go  out  free,  as  a  noble 
capitulant  to  an  honorable  liberty,  with  unstained 
banners  free  in  the  free  air.  Chivalry  made  him 
drunk  with  a  splendid  enthusiasm. 

She  did  not  regret  anything,  especially  the 
child.  It  cleansed  his  palate  like  a  draught  of 
spring  water.  A  wild  pleasure,  with  a  wrung, 
piteous  mirth  in  it,  throbbed  in  his  veins — the 
emotion  was  half  sane,  wholly  illogical,  howbeit 
he  hugged  it  delightedly.  Lives  sprang  like 
weeds  from  the  trifling  amours  of  the  mob — 
glasses  filled  a  score  of  times  with  champagne 
and  then  put  by  for  ale.  His  had  once  been 


HOPE  OUT  OF  HELL  245 

brimmed  with  Tokay,  and  now  it  was  dashed  to 
pieces — a  worthy  fate  for  the  rarest  crystal  shaped 
by  the  blower's  tube.  He  gasped  in  the  Alpine 
atmosphere  of  tragedy. 

He  went  to  look  at  his  son.  unconsciously  re- 
taining the  letter.  The  little  one  was  lying- 
awake  ;  its  pacific  orbs  regarded  him,  recognizing 
an  intimate.  There  was  in  them  no  trace  of  that 
disquiet  which  had  saddened  Hero's.  Otherwise 
the  wide  pupils,  limpid  and  intensely  blue,  were 
those  of  his  wife.  The  reflection  provoked  one 
of  the  indefinable  recollections  that  will  arrest  the 
deepest  train  of  thought.  He  raised  the  letter — 
the  postscript  spoke  to  him  with  sudden  force: 
"I  am  glad  Baby  has  my  eyes." 

Amid  a  fog  of  incredulous  surmise  he  groped 
for  the  esoteric  significance  of  the  words;  their 
equation  came  to  him,  strongly,  convincingly,  as 
totals  come  to  the  lightning  calculator.  She 
loved  him  and  did  not  know  it! — some  malign 
obsession  held  her  in  thrall :  she  could  not  read 
her  own  heart;  notwithstanding,  she  copied  its 
complex  characters  for  him  to  decipher.  "I  am 
glad  Baby  has  my  eyes," — he  said  it  over  to  him- 
self, it  warmed  him  like  a  cordial. 

Re-read,  the  letter  set  him  girding  at  fate;  it 
was  so  honorable,  so  wifely !  If  witchcraft  were 
not  rank  superstition  and  a  spell  might  be  cast 
by  an  enemy  upon  some  noble  matron,  in  whom 
the  bias  of  sorcery  and  an  old  tenderness  for  a 
dear  lord  should  grapple  for  the  mastery,  they 


246  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

might  so  express  themselves.     What  was  he  to 
do  ? — he  plumbed  the  depths  about  him. 

Pursue  her? — it  was  the  easiest  course,  the 
normal,  the  conventional,  the  sane.  Yet  he 
shrank  from  it ;  it  impressed  him  as  ignoble — 
there  was  a  gravely  obscure  adequacy  about  her 
own  defense  of  flight ;  he  yielded  a  bitter  intellect- 
ual assent  to  her  good  faith.  She  had  money, 
ample  for  her  immediate  needs — he  might  be  able 
to  get  more  to  her  without  incurring  the  odium  of 
pursuit;  he  would  try  to  think  it  out. 

And  the  future!  He  shied  from  the  problem, 
feeling  sub-consciously  that  at  least  he  could 
endure ;  irony  indicated  to  him  his  strong  point-^- 
quiescence.  A  misdirected  activity  had  brought 
him  to  this  pass.  In  such  fashion  a  clumsy  gen- 
eral might  defeat  himself  more  completely  than 
the  most  wily  foe  could  hope  to.  How  he  had 
muddled ! — exaltation  sank  into  despair.  The 
dusk  came  down  upon  him  like  the  materializa- 
tion of  his  own  gloom ;  the  child  slept  again,  dark- 
ness flooded  the  clayfield,  involving  the  white  cot- 
tage somberly,  thought  died  into  inert  sorrow. 

When  he  rose  it  was  to  light  the  lamp  in  Hero's 
"shrine";  the  yellow  glow  irradiated  the  empty 
chair,  the  table  with  its  books,  the  silken  throat 
of  the  work-basket,  the  arabesques  of  the  screen. 
As  he  gazed  the  extravagance  of  his  emotion 
frustrated  itself;  he  became  numb. 

He  began  to  fold  the  letter,  looking  for  the  dis- 
carded envelope.  Finding  it,  he  restored  the 


HOPE  OUT  OF  HELL  247 

note  to  its  receptacle  and  smoothed  the  torn  flap. 
There  were  some  words  upon  it;  he  made  them 
out  with  difficulty.  "Please" — yes,  it  was 
"please" — "don't  be  very  miserable."  She  had 
turned  back  to  write  that,  underlining  the  adverb 
with  an  impulsive  dash.  A.  moan  burst  to  his 
lips — how  could  he  obey  her?  was  he  not,  indeed. 
most,  most  miserable? 

Mrs.  Gotch  arrived  at  last ;  she  had  been  out  to 
tea  and  had  stayed  to  argue  some  debatable  point 
of  social  ethics.  Without  a  word  Paul  gave  her 
Hero's  farewell ;  Selina  read  it,  amazed. 

"Really!"  she  cried — the  harshness  more  of 
surprise  than  anger — "what  a  mad  thing  to  do !" 

"Unusual !"  said  her  son,  with  equal  sternness ; 
"but  not  mad — honest,  if  you  will.  It  would 
have  been  so  easy  to  drift." 

"But  Baby,"  demurred  Mrs.  Gotch,  fragment- 
arily;  "to  leave  the  child  like  that!" 

"That  she  could  so  leave  it,"  responded  Paul, 
"is  the  measure  of  my  folly — and — shame." 

His  voice  broke ;  he  seated  himself  abruptly  on 
the  couch.  Selina  threw  off  her  mantle. 

"She  doesn't  say  where  she  is  going,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Gotch. 

"She  shall  not  be  followed,"  Paul  answered 
fiercely — the  meaning  rather  than  the  observation 
— "she  shall  not  be  hunted  down  like  a  criminal." 

"You  can't  let  the  girl  go  away  from  you  in 
such  an  extraordinary  manner,"  snapped  his 
mother,  practically. 


248  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

"It  is  her  right,"  insisted  the  other;  "she  thinks 
she  does  not  love  me." 

Mrs.  Gotch  lifted  her  eyebrows. 

"But  she  does,"  cried  Paul ;  "she  does — she 
pities  me  beyond  the  limits  of  pity ;  so  love  begins. 
Shall  I  turn  persecutor  and  terrify  her  into  hat- 
ing me?" 

"You  must  consider  her  reputation !"  urged 
Selina. 

"Reputation  be  damned!"  swore  Paul — lash- 
ing himself  into  frenzy — "it  is  too  -often  the 
leper's  cloak  for  me  to  covet  it  for  her.  I  laid  a 
mine  that  might  have  blown  both  our  souls  into 
the  Pit;  she  has  carried  the  touch-paper  out  of 
reach — she  shall  not  be  hounded  for  it.  She  says 
that  she  went  away  alone;  she  need  not  have 
said  it — I  would  have  trusted  her;  it  is  you 
women  that  can  not  trust  one  another.  But  / 
will  trust  her,  though  all  the  devils  from  hell 
mocked  at  me  like  apes  in  a  circle.  My  God! 
can  not  a  woman  flee  from  temptation  but  you 
must  chain  her  to  it  with  gyves  ?" 

Mrs.  Gotch  stared  at  him,  open-mouthed;  re- 
sentment flushed  her  thin  cheeks  and  knitted  her 
level  brows. 

Paul  anticipated  her  protest:  he  dropped  his 
arm  on  the  padded  extremity  of  the  couch  and 
laid  his  face  against  it.  Distraction  had  thrust 
him  upon  tears. 

His  mother  saw  it,  and  hushed  on  the  brink  of 
passion.  She  sat  down  by  him,  a  little  troubled 


HOPE  OUT  OF  PI  ELL  249 

at  her  escape  from  cruelty.  Her  son's  bent 
shoulders  heaved  and  the  couch  shook ;  Selina's 
eyes  moistened  sympathetically,  she  touched  away 
the  salt  drops  with  her  finger-tips.  Her  return- 
ing palm  fell  upon  her  son's ;  she  patted  it  consol- 
ingly. He  clasped  her  hand — a  gesture  of  peni- 
tence— but  did  not  speak.  Selina  Gotch  bit  her 
lips ;  the  tears  began  to  flow  indisputably. 

Mother  and  son  sat  thus  for  a  long  time ;  the 
light  still  gleaming  in  Hero's  empty  corner,  the 
child  slumbering  in  its  cot  hard  by. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A    PARADOX    OF    MATERNITY 

HERO  had  taken  her  seat  in  an  otherwise  empty 
compartment;  her  lids  were  drooped,  her  gloved 
hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The  infernal  rattle  be- 
neath, behind,  and  before,  dulled  her  senses  like 
a  narcotic.  Time  simulated  for  her  the  change- 
ful yet  abiding  present  of  eternity.  Thus  screened, 
the  remorseless  hours  outran  the  rapid  train. 

The  dusk  grew — a  swelling,  purple  flood,  low- 
lying  as  an  autumnal  mist.  Lights  shone  through 
it,  coruscating,  microscopic,  solitary.  A  waning 
moon  hung  her  sharp  crescent  above  a  wisp  of 
gossamer  cloud.  Unknown  shires,  unknown 
towns,  unknown  villages  eddied  by ;  their  breaths 
played  momentarily  upon  the  fugitive — now  the 
passionate  scent  of  maturing  hay,  now  the  mys- 
terious odor  of  some  dank  glen,  now  the  indefina- 
ble stimulus  of  blown  water,  now  the  grim  ex- 
halations of  infrequent  cities.  She  became  im- 
personal— the  sentient  without  the  reflective. 

At  last  the  yellowing  illumination  of  the  lamp 
overhead  conquered  the  external  panorama,  the 
windows     turned    mirrors.     Hero's    perceptions 
narrowed  and  sharpened. 
250 


A  PARADOX  OP  MATERNITY      251 

She  surveyed  the  compartment — its  intelligent 
simplicity  offended  her;  her  thoughts,  annihilat- 
ing space,  made  for  the  accentuated  familiarities 
of  Home;  it  was  the  first  occasion  on  which  her 
regard  of  the  white  cottage  had  justified  the  cap- 
ital letter.  Nevertheless  she  recalled  them — the 
thoughts — indignantly ;  she  disciplined  them  with 
stern  persistence ;  finally  she  succeeded  in  concen- 
trating them,  not  so  much  upon  the  future  as 
away  from  the  past. 

The  physical  obtruded  itself  after  many  futile 
attempts.  Hero  localized  a  gnawing  dissatisfac- 
tion— it  was  appetite,  grown  frenzied :  the  force 
of  its  suddenly-considered  appeal  brought  a  sob 
of  self-pity  into  her  throat, — she  had  eaten  noth- 
ing since  noon.  At  Wolverhampton  she  was  des- 
perate— and  defeated.  The  starting  train  drew 
her  from  the  very  threshold  of  the  refreshment- 
room  ;  she  sat  down  again  in  the  lonely  compart- 
ment, biting  her  lip. 

At  Leamington  her  isolation  ended.  The  in- 
truders were  a  baby — uncomfortably  pretentious 
in  a  stiff  white  hat  and  caped  coat  with  fleecy 
trimmings — and  a  woman.  A  glance  at  the  lat- 
ter produced  in  Hero  a  haunting  impulse  of  rec- 
ognition ;  she  groped  for  a  clue  and  found  it.  The 
woman  was  a  type — Hero  had  seen  the  type  in 
London  and  marveled. 

In  brief,  the  woman  and  the  child  were  anoma- 
lies— each  of  the  other.  She  was  ample,  high- 
bosomed,  tightly-laced;  for  her  the  smart  obvi- 


252          A   SON  OF  'AUSTERITY 

ously  invaded  the  flesh — her  crimpled  coiffure,  the 
flat  curls  on  her  low  forehead,  her  dazzling  false 
teeth,  her  staring  box-cloth  ulster,  all  proclaimed 
it,  and  proclaimed  her,  too,  the  essential  Negation 
of  Motherhood.  The  bahy  piqued  Hero's  acute- 
ness.  Hunger  retreating  temporarily  before  in- 
evitable famine,  she  began  to  study  her  neighbors 
— the  large  and  the  small. 

Incontinently  the  child  woke  and  cried ;  chal- 
lenged by  the  roaring  of  the  express  it  took  up  the 
challenge.  Its  guardian  dandled  it,  petulantly 
and  unavailingly.  The  infantile  vision  focusing 
Hero's  friendly  concern,  the  weeper  paused  to 
ponder  her. 

A  pang  struck  the  young  woman — a  pang 
ruthless,  indomitable,  crushing,  as  the  knout  may 
have  descended  upon  patrician  shoulders.  She 
could  have  shrieked — to  think  of  the  child  Cyril. 
Almost  her  heart  stood  still;  with  a  paroxysm 
that  brought  the  beaded  sweat  to  her  brow  it  re- 
sumed its  pulsations.  Involuntarily,  piteously, 
she  held  out  her  arms  to  the  little  one  opposite. 
It  made  an  inchoate  motion,  which  its  custodian 
interpreted  by  passing  her  burden  across  the  nar- 
row aisle. 

"If  you  really  don't  mind,"  she  said  crisply; 
"he's  just  got  me  wild  with  his  carryings-on  to- 
day, and  when  I'm  wild  I  can't  do  the  least  bit  of 
good  with  him.  Perhaps  he'll  behave  himself 
with  you,  he  does  take  fancies  like  that." 

The  speaker  settled  herself  comfortably  into 


A  PARADOX  Or  MATERNITY      253 

her  corner  and  began,  for  no  apparent  purpose, 
to  take  off  her  gloves.  Hero  saw  that  she  wore, 
in  addition  to  a  wedding-ring,  several  jeweled 
circlets,  assertively  scintillating. 

"Going  far?"  asked  the  other,  pulling  the  deli- 
cate skins  into  shape. 

"London,"  said  Hero,  touching  the  baby's 
cheeks  to  make  it  laugh. 

"So  am  I,"  she  was  told;  "it's  the  only  place 
worth  living  in.  I've  been  out  of  it  a  week,  and 
I  might  as  well  have  been  dead.  Do  you  live 
there?" 

Hero  answered  briefly;  she  was  getting  the 
child  to  sleep.  The  wearer  of  the  box-cloth  ulster 
threw  it  open,  revealing  a  somewhat  soiled  gown 
of  fawn-colored  material. 

"You  do  know  how  to  manage  children,"  she 
confessed  frankly;  "I  quite  envy  you.  Are  you 
married  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hero.  The  lie  burned  her  mouth, 
the  golden  symbol  on  her  left  hand  seemed  to  as- 
sert itself  even  through  her  glove. 

"Ah!"  was  the  indolent  response;  "I  suppose 
it  comes  natural  to  some  people.  I  always  hated 
the  idea  of  having  them  myself."  The  second  of 
the  three  pronouns  was  adequate,  if  oblique. 

"That  was  only  until  you  had  one  of  your 
own,"  suggested  Hero,  rocking  gently. 

"You  wait  till  you're  married,"  she  was  ad- 
vised, with  a  certain  suppressed  mirth  that  had 
in  it  a  singularly  shrewd  element.  "When  any 


254  A    SOX    OF   AUSTERITY 

one  is  pleased  it's  the  man,  and  that's  only  at  first. 
Our  fun  is  spoiled  for  years  and  years,  but  they 
don't  care — except  when  it  comes  to  standing  the 
ex's." 

"But  all  men  are  not  alike,"  objected  Hero, 
urged  by  a  painful  instinct  of  justice. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  are,"  was  the  retort;  "some  of 
them  are  deeper  than  the  rest,  that's  all."  She 
dismissed  the  subject  with  a  grimace.  "Would 
it  be  troubling  you  too  much,"  she  propounded, 
"if  I  had  forty  winks?  That  child  kept  me 
awake  all  last  night." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Hero,  obscurely  crit- 
ical of  her  companion's  egotism;  "baby  seems 
quite  settled  now." 

The  other  put  up  her  feet,  wrapping  the  skirt 
of  her  ulster  round  them. 

"You  know,  it's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  she  ob- 
served, with  an  affectation  of  extreme  gratitude, 
and  in  another  moment  she  was  slumbering 
heavily. 

Hero  seized  the  opportunity  to  take  off  her  own 
gloves  and  remove  the  tell-tale  ornament  from  her 
left  hand.  She  blushed  hotly  as  she  did  so.  Her 
purse  was  the  only  convenient  hiding-place.  She 
put  the  significant  trifle  into  it  with  an  equivocal 
respiration — possibly  of  relief,  not  impossibly  of 
regret. 

She  fell  upon  contemplating  the  child;  it  was 
well-grown  and  healthy,  yet,  despite  its  ornate 
costume,  vaguely  unkempt;  Hero  noticed  that 


A  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY      255 

its  garments  were  too  tightly  drawn  about  the 
short,  apoplectic  neck.  Loosening  them,  she  no- 
ticed that  the  linen  so  exposed  was  eloquently 
•dingy.  The  discovery  angered  her.  She  looked 
at  the  gross,  strong  figure  of  the  elder  sleeper, 
fathoming  her  repellent  naturalism. 

Again  the  child  awakened,  but  without  tears. 
Hero  talked  to  it,  glad  of  the  necessity — she  was 
weary  of  silence.  The  little  one  was  stolid — 
there  had  not  been  lavished  upon  it  those  cease- 
less, tender  evocations  of  intelligence  which  de- 
velop the  mentality  even  of  the  suckling. 

Hero  showed  it  the  scenic  photographs  that 
decorated  the  compartment;  a  cow  in  one,  a  dog 
in  another,  furnished  her  with  texts  for  babbling 
speech.  The  wide,  brown  eyes  shifted  interest- 
edly; the  ill-balanced  head  followed  her  demon- 
strative finger. 

"Well,"  said  the  taker  of  the  forty  winks,  sit- 
ting up  suddenly,  "you  beat  all  for  managing  a 
child.  I  should  have  thought  you'd  had  half  a 
dozen  of  your  own,  only  for  your  being  so  young. 
I  am  obliged  to  you;  I  was  shaping  for  a  nice 
headache,  but  it's  gone  off  now.  You  must  be 
tired,  though" — this  last  with  unwilling  polite- 
ness— "let  me  take  him.  Come  to  mother,  Babs." 

The  baby  shrank  into  Hero's  bosom  and  wailed 
lustily.  His  mother  reddened;  pride  covets  all 
virtues.  Cynicism  saved  the  situation. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  remarked,  and  shook  her- 
self into  order.  Her  foot  had  caught  in  a  strip 


256  A    SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

of  torn  frilling;  she  dragged  this  latter  up,  ripped 
off  a  dozen  inches  and  tossed  it  under  the  seat. 
The  flounces  thus  revealed  were  elaborate  yet 
untidy ;  typicality  extended  its  radius. 

"What  part  of  London  do  you  live  in?"  she 
inquired. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  admitted  Hero,  awk- 
wardly. 

The  questioner  peered  at  her  curiously. 

"I  see,"  she  concluded  ;  "you're  going  to  friends 
for  awhile." 

"No,"  said  Hero,  reflecting  that  she  might 
profit  by  a  judiciously  regulated  frankness;  "I 
have  no  friends,  now.  I  have — parted  from 
them." 

"That's  why  you're  going  to  London?"  she  was 
asked. 

"Y-yes,"  said  Hero. 

"Ever  been  there  before?" 

"Once,"  owned  the  cross-examined. 

The  full,  red  lips  pouted — a  humorous, 
worldly-wise  expression  was  the  result. 

"You've  booked  rooms  somewhere,  of  course," 
she  was  informed;  "we  don't  get  in  till  nearly 
eleven." 

"I — I  haven't,"  said  Hero,  feeling  weak;  "I 
thought  of  going  to  the  Station  Hotel." 

The  other  acknowledged  the  information  with 
a  curt  nod,  and  the  child  dropping  into  a  doze, 
offered  tepidly  to  repossess  herself  of  it.  Hero 
consented,  and  having  surrendered  the  nursling, 


A  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY      257 

promptly  sat  back  and  fainted,  from  the  joint 
effects  of  hunger  and  excitement,  and  an  abrupt 
visaging  of  the  future. 

She  recovered  to  find  herself  nauseated  by 
brandy-and-water.  The  baby  was  crying  deter- 
minedly, its  mother  knitting  her  brows  in  bewil- 
dered disgust  at  the  complicated  situation. 

"Did  I  go  off?"  gasped  the  patient.  "I'm  so 
sorry,  but  I  haven't  eaten  anything  for  hours, 
that's  all — I'm  not  really  ill." 

"Poor  dear,"  said  the  other,  relieved;  "have 
some  biscuits;  they  made  me  bring  a  lot  for  the 
child." 

She  extracted  sundry  unsatisfying  wafers  from 
her  hand-bag.  Hero  ate  a  handful  ravenously, 
then  set  herself  to  still  the  infantile  grief. 

"Mayn't  I  know  your  name?"  inquired  the 
donor  of  the  biscuits ;  "mine's  Maitland — Phemie 
Maitland,  short  for  Euphemia,  which  I  hate." 

Hero  thought  rapidly.  "Mine  is  Frances  Lan- 
caster," she  said,  giving  her  mother's  Christian 
name  and  fitting  to  it  a  surname  not  unlike  her 
own — an  alias  should  at  least  ring  familiarly  on 
the  bearer's  ears,  if  merely  to  avoid  a  suspicious 
inattention. 

"Excuse  me  asking  it,"  went  on  Mrs.  Mait- 
land ;  "but  do  you  earn  your  own  living?" 

Miss  Lancaster  owned — a  trifle  mendaciously 
— that  she  did. 

"I'm  a  milliner,"  she  added.  The  word  brought 
back  much. 


258          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"H'mf"  said  Mrs.  Maitland.  with  meditative 
patronage.  "Do  you  know.  Miss  Lancaster,  it's 
a  bit  risky  of  me.  but  I've  been  wondering  if  I 
couldn't  give  you  a  lift.  My  husband's  a  sea- 
captain;  I've  got  a  little  flat  at  Bloomsbury  so  as 
not  to  be  dull  when  he's  away,  which  is  nearly  al- 
ways. Would  you  like  to  put  up  with  me?  It 
would  cost  you  less  than  you  could  do  it  anywhere 
else  for.  I'd  make  it  awfully  cheap  for  you,  if 
you'd  give  me  a  hand  sometimes  with  baby." 

The  fugitive  pondered ;  Mrs.  Phemie  Maitland 
was  the  least  lovely  of  types,  but  the  child  was  re- 
assuring. She  pitied  it  for  its  stolidity,  its  grimy 
linen,  its  fretful  weeping.  The  observer  watched 
the  progress  of  her  companion's  hesitancy. 

"Try  it  for  a  day  or  two,"  she  threw  in,  choos- 
ing her  moment  adroitly.  "I've  a  decent  little 
place — I'm  sure  you'll  be  comfortable.  Besides, 
you're  not  fit  to  go  to  a  hotel  to-night; 
you're  as  white  as  a  sheet.  Let  me  put  you  up 
till  to-morrow.  I'll  not  charge  you  anything  if 
you'll  only  give  an  eye  to  baby ;  he  is  so  cross  after 
he's  been  traveling." 

Hero  was  sick  of  indecision:  she  sprang  to 
agreement. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  wearily;  "I  will." 

Mrs.  Phemie  Maitland  forthwith  entered  upon 
a  process  of  conversational  pumping  which  drove 
Hero  to  the  verge  of  distraction.  Yet  she  suc- 
ceeded in  holding  her  own  till  they  reached  the 
great  terminus  in  the  north-west  of  London, 


A  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY      259 

where  she  had  a  further  glimpse  of  Madame 
Phemie's  character,  who  bullied  two  porters  with 
uncouth  majesty  while  her  dress-basket  was  be- 
ing hauled  out  of  the  van  and  loaded  upon  a  four- 
wheeler.  Hero  chafed  indignantly,  shivering  to 
and  fro  upon  the  draughty  platform  with  the  child 
in  her  arms;  later,  she  extracted  certain  coppers 
wherewith  to  appease  the  myrmidons  of  the  rail. 
When  they  rumbled  out  of  the  station  she  had 
contracted  a  supernatural  headache. 

Mrs.  Maitland's  Bloomsbury  proved  to  be  Judd 
Street,  that  curious  semi-thoroughfare  which  be- 
gins promisingly  at  Euston  Road,  changes  its 
title  half  way  down,  and  loses  itself  in  the  purlieus 
of  the  Foundling  Hospital.  Her  flat  was  con- 
tained in  a  tall  red-brick  structure,  before  which 
the  cab  stopped. 

"Have  you  any  change,  Miss  Lancaster?"  Hero 
was  asked.  She  assented  mechanically.  "My 
purse  is  in  my  under-pocket,"  explained  Mrs. 
Phemie,  descending;  "please  give  him  two  shill- 
ings." 

The  cabman  opened  a  capacious  mouth  and 
nerved  himself  for  the  fray.  Hero,  trembling  at 
the  prospect  of  another  altercation,  paid  out  three 
of  the  desired  coins. 

Up  interminable  flights  of  stairs  the  women 
labored,  the  younger  burdened  with  the  child. 
At  the  last  door  on  the  topmost  landing  Mrs. 
Maitland  drew  out  a  key  and  gained  admission. 
A  dark  little  ante-chamber  faced  them ;  she  groped 


26o          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

for  matches  and  struck  a  light.  Hero  looked 
about  her :  it  was  her  first  entry  into  that  peculiar 
product  of  the  builder's  craft,  a  self-contained 
suite. 

"Come  in  here,  Miss  Lancaster,"  said  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  flat,  and  led  the  way  into  a  small 
room  with,  on  one  side,  a  lean-to  roof  and  a  dor- 
mer window.  In  it  were  a  cheap  Indian  carpet, 
a  table,  some  wicker  chairs  with  cushions,  a  hang- 
ing corner-cupboard,  and  a  gas-stove  with  as- 
bestos fringes.  This  last  Mrs.  Maitland  set  go- 
ing, after  igniting  a  single-jet  chandelier  that  de- 
pended from  the  ceiling. 

Hero  was  smitten  unkindly  by  the  fact  that 
there  were  no  books  and  no  pictures,  excepting, 
under  the  latter  category,  a  few  photographs  on 
the  mantel.  She  missed  the  generous  fire-place 
of  the  work-room  at  the  white  cottage ;  she  missed 
the  serried  book-shelves,  the  flowers,  the  odds  and 
ends  of  pottery,  the  rugs,  the  hassocks,  the  huge 
Japanese  screen,  the  sweeping  portiere,  the  walls 
crowded  with  objects  pleasant  to  behold.  This 
room  was  empty  to  the  point  of  irritation. 

Mrs.  Phemie  Maitland  was  taking  off  her  ul- 
ster. She  was  a  plump  contradiction — art  fetter- 
ing nature;  the  effect  was  a  hardy  simplicity  of 
outline. 

"Baby  wrill  be  good  w-ith  you/'  she  remarked; 
'I'll  put  the  kettle  on,"  and  so  disappeared  into 
the  rear  of  the  flat.  Re-appearing  after  an  un- 
expectedly prolonged  absence,  she  threw  a  cloth 


rA  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY      261 

over  one  end  of  the  table,  and  brought  in  a  loaf, 
some  butter,  the  tea-things,  and  a  couple  of  tissue- 
paper  parcels,  grease-spotted. 

"I  just  ran  out  for  these,"  she  observed ;  "I  had 
nothing  in.  Do  you  like  sausage? — it  was  the 
only  place  open." 

Hero  shivered,  but  evaded  the  inquiry.  Mrs. 
Maitland  dabbed  on  to  a  plate  some  circular  slices 
of  varying  colors  and  diameters,  and  then  having 
filled  the  tea-pot,  took  the  child. 

''Throw  your  hat  and  jacket  down  there,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  recessed  window-seat;  "we 
will  carry  them  in  after  we  have  had  something 
to  eat — I'm  simply  famishing." 

Hero  choked  through  her  supper.  Hungry  as 
she  was,  she  could  not  do  more  than  nibble  at  the 
enigmatic  pabulum  that  Phemie  Maitland  de- 
voured with  such  gusto.  The  butter  was  strong, 
the  tea  weak,  the  loaf  stale.  The  fastidious  pro- 
vincial suffered  acutely;  she  escaped  further  tor- 
ment by  inquiring  into  the  child's  diet,  and  offer- 
ing to  prepare  it  a  meal.  Phemie  delegated  the 
task  with  joy. 

"You  do  take  to  children,"  she  said,  increas- 
ingly impressed. 

The  infant  appetite  being  satisfied,  Phemie 
mooted  the  idea  of  retirement,  and  having  extin- 
guished the  stove  and  the  chandelier,  showed  her 
guest  into  the  adjoining  room.  It  was  even  more 
meagerly  furnished  than  the  other,  boasting  a 
bed,  a  cot,  a  toilet-table,  a  gas-stove — alight  and 


262  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

filling  the  apartment  with  its  disagreeable  odor — 
and  Mrs.  Maitland's  dress-basket,  which  had  been 
carried  up  by  a  lounger — for  twopence — at  the 
time  of  their  arrival. 

"I've  only  got  one  bedroom,"  elucidated 
Phemie,  calmly;  "you  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

Hero  did,  but  there  was  no  manner  of  use  in 
saying  so.  Mrs.  Maitland  went  to  shoot  sundry 
bolts,  and  returning,  fastened  the  door  behind 
her.  Quickly,  almost  brutally,  she  undressed  the 
child  and  laid  it  in  its  cot.  It  was  too  tired  to  be 
fretful,  and  she  herself  sought  slumber  with  the 
same  self-centered  indifference  to  Hero's  proceed- 
ings that  she  had  done  in  the  train. 

"I've  put  you  on  baby's  side,"  she  intimated; 
"you  are  so  clever  at  managing  him — you  will 
turn  the  stove  off  when  you're  ready,  won't  you  ?" 

Hero  accepted  both  commissions — the  tacit  and 
the  definite  one.  She  had  sat  down  to  brush  her 
hair;  it  was  a  sensible  method  of  fighting  the 
devastating  headache  which  had  gripped  her. 
Half-an-hour  elapsed ;  she  had  dozed  in  her  chair, 
and  roused  to  fancy  her  waking  itself  a  dream. 
With  wide,  startled  eyes  she  surveyed  her  sur- 
roundings— the  bare  room,  the  cot,  the  dressing- 
table  littered  with  powders  and  perfumes,  and  the 
flat  white  pots  of  would-be  beauty ;  she  glimpsed 
the  rolling  black  locks,  the  even  complexion,  the 
red  lips  of  Phemie  Maitland.  There  was  a  taw- 
dry bow  or  two  among  the  cheap  laces  at  the 
plump  throat.  Hero  quivered  with  a  vague  dis- 


A  PARADOX  OF  MATERNITY      263 

gust;  an  impulse  of  flight  prompted  her.  Then 
from  the  cot  came  a  low,  complaining  murmur. 
Phemie  answered  it  with  a  stertorous  si  eh. 

o 

Hero  slipped  across  and  soothed  the  child.  As 
she  bent  over  it  an  hour  chimed  from  a  neighbor- 
ing church — she  listened  for  the  strokes :  two 
o'clock.  A  dread  Unknown  palisaded  that  tiny 
spot  with  fears.  Trembling  and  unstrung,  she 
lay  down  at  length — to  weep  silently.  Sleep  was 
merciful;  she  wandered  into  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER   XXIH 

SPIRITUALITY    AND    A    MATERIAL    EQUATION 

"CHECKMATE/'  said  Patrick  Stuart,  moving  a 
bishop. 

Paul  Gotch  studied  the  ending,  then  relaxed  his 
attention. 

"You  should  have  won/'  commented  the  vicar; 
"but  you  handled  your  queen  wrongly." 

"Woman  against  priest,"  said  Paul,  with  sat- 
urnine humor,  "there  might  at  least  have  been  a 
draw." 

"It  does  not  follow,"  murmured  the  vicar;  "I 
had  a  queen  also." 

"And  I  a  rook,"  answered  the  other;  "are 
we  playing  with  pieces,  Stuart,  or — words?" 

Patrick  Stuart  tried  to  smile.  He  fingered  a 
cigar,  then  lit  it.  Paul  set  up  a  problem. 

"Black  to  play  and  mate  in  three  moves,"  he 
propounded.  The  vicar  reflected,  then  pointed 
out  the  series. 

"Good,"  said  the  inventor;  "and  yet  if  I  were 
to  christen  these  bits  of  box- wood  'God/  'Death/ 
'Man/  and  The  Devil,'  how  you  would  wriggle 
264 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUA  TION  265 

when  I  cornered  God  and  the  Devil  with  Man  and 
Death." 

"Profanity  apart,"  observed  Patrick  Smart :  "I 
yield  you  an  absolute  freedom  of  nomenclature." 

"Peccavi!"  grimaced  Paul,  acknowledging  the 
covert  rebuke :  ''but  if  the  nomenclature  had  some 
point,  Man  being  the  featherless  biped  himself, 
Death  a  day-old  corpse,  and  God  and  the  Devil 
a  Bible  and  a  volume  of  D'Annunzio!  Would 
you  not  suspend  the  laws  of  thought — that  is,  of 
chess — would  you  not  even,  a  move  before  check- 
mate, sweep  the  board  and  cry  'Allah  il  Allah!' 
as  Mahomet  did,  defying  criticism  with  a  smile, 
as  he  with  the  sword?" 

"The  laws  of  chess,"  said  the  vicar,  "are  arbi- 
trary, the  laws  of  thought  a  misleading  synonym 
for  'processes  of  thought.'  You  observe  a  pro- 
cess, you  obey  a  law." 

"That  is  as  much  as  to  say,  on  the  theological 
plane,  two  and  two  do  not  make  four." 

"Do  they  on  the  mathematical?"  desired  Pat- 
rick Stuart ;  "what  about  plus  two  and  minus  two, 
which  make  nothing?" 

Paul  struck  out. 

"  'For  what  man  is  there  of  you,' "  he  quoted 
bitterly,  "  'who,  if  his  son  ask  bread,  will  he  give 
him  a  stone?'  Comfort  me,  thou  man  of  God — 
am  I  not  in  your  parish  ?  Behold,  I  surrender  to 
your  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction;  bring  forth  bell, 
book,  and  candle,  and  exorcise  me.  Come,  now, 


266          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

begin ;  you  have  a  Gospel  for  the  laity,  expound 
it." 

The  vicar  flicked  away  the  ash  of  his  cigar, 
and  looked  pityingly  at  the  speaker. 

"  'Believe  and  thou  shalt  be  saved' — is  not  that 
it?''  said  Paul,  strainedly. 

"From  what  do  you  wish  to  be  saved?"  he 
was  asked. 

"From  the  resentment  of  being,"  came  the  dark 
answer. 

"The  philosopher  despises  nothing,"  demurred 
the  elder. 

"He  may  pity,"  parried  Paul  Gotch ;  "a  system 
of  sentient  existence  which  returns  continually 
upon  itself,  and  which  provides  no  other  reason 
for  its  being  than  that  it  exists,  is  at  least  pitiable. 
Resentment  is  the  intellectual  form  of  compas- 
sion. Philosophy  aspires  to  prevent  what  hu- 
manitarianism  only  seeks  to  alleviate." 

"What  do  you  suggest?"  countered  Patrick 
Stuart;  "universal  suicide?" 

"I  suggest  nothing,"  snapped  Paul,  irritably. 
"I  find  nothing  in  the  terrestrial  scheme  to  justify 
it ;  I  ask  the  reason  of  the  External.  You  are  a 
disciple  of  the  External ;  like  Canning,  you  call 
in  a  new  world  to  redress  the  balance  of  the  old. 
Build  me  a  golden  bridge  to  it." 

"  'Philip  saith  unto  him,'  "  repeated  the  vicar, 
albeit  reverently,  "  'Lord,  show  us  the  Father, 
and  it  sufrketh  us.  Jesus  answered  and  said  unto 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQ  UA  TION  267 

him,  He  that  hath  seen  Me  hath  seen  the 
Father.'  " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  vouchsafed  Paul  despond- 
ently :  "it  is  noble,  it  is  mysterious,  it  is  challeng- 
ing, it  is  profound ;  even  to  the  student  of  compar- 
ative religions  it  is  sui  generis.  Was  it  the  cul- 
minating assertion  of  our  futile  spirituality;  the 
incandescent  credulity  of  an  ethical  genius — the 
Shakespeare  of  religious  thought?  In  other 
words,  was  that  which  happened  in  Jerusalem 
under  Pontius  Pilate  part  of  the  world-tragedy 
or  its  vindication  ?  You  take  the  latter  view,  I — 
wonder.  Hitherto  I  have  been  content  to  won- 
der, now  a  contrary  fate  drives  me  over  the  edge 
of  the  world  for  comfort,  as  once  I  went  for 
curiosity." 

He  bent  forward,  sending  the  chessmen  rolling 
here  and  there. 

"Stuart,"  he  said,  "you  and  those  who  think 
more  or  less  with  you  are  the  only  court  of  appeal. 
If  you  have  not  some  right  on  your  side  the 
material  cosmogony  is  a  spiritual  vacuum,  and, 
as  Poe  has  told  us,  the  hero  of  the  Tragedy  'Man' 
is,  after  all,  the  Conqueror  Worm.  You  argued, 
I  remember,  that  nothing  was  so  constant  as  the 
dissatisfied  heart  that  had  hope.  /  must  have 
hope,  then — not  the  tinseled  cherub  whose  name 
is  Romance,  but  Hope,  Hope,  the  not-a-sparrow- 
falleth  Hope.  You  understand  me;  for  God's 
sake — if  there  be  a  God! — produce  the  reasons 
for  your  faith,  if  reasons  you  have.  I  ask  you  for 


268          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

them,  not  cynically,  not  lightly,  but  as  a  wounded 
man  asks  for  water  in  a  desert.  You  have  loved, 
you  have  been  worsted,  you  have  endured ;  if  you 
know  more  than  I  know,  speak!  speak!" 

He  pored  upon  the  other's  countenance  as  if  he 
would  have  penetrated  to  the  ultimate  recesses 
of  his  mind.  Patrick  Stuart's  mouth  trembled, 
a  shadowy  confession  hung  about  his  eyes.  Paul 
Gotch  withdrew  his  gaze. 

When  the  vicar  spoke  it  was  in  a  shame-faced 
way. 

"If  there  were  any  such  scientific  proof  as  you 
demand,"  he  ventured,  "may  I  ask  if  you  imagine 
it  would  be  either  a  concrete  or  a  simple  one?" 

"What  would  it  matter,  so  that  it  were  proof?" 
fretted  Paul,  trifling  with  the  chessmen. 

"It  matters  this  far,"  went  on  Patrick  Stuart, 
"that  being,  of  necessity,  complex  and  diffuse, 
such  a  proof  would  be,  for  ninety-nine  out  of  a 
hundred,  no  proof  at  all.  The  overwhelming 
majority  of  the  conventionally-educated  would 
not  so  much  as  apprehend  it — though  they  might 
adopt  it,  nominally  as  a  defense  of,  really  as  an 
adjunct  to,  their  faith.  Most  of  the  remainder 
would  attempt  adequately  to  consider  such  a 
proof,  and  failing,  might  unluckily  view  their  fail- 
ure as  the  break-down  of  your  argument.  One 
man  in  a  hundred  might  be  helped  by  it." 

"Take  me  for  that  man  in  your  initial  hun- 
dred," proposed  Paul. 

The  vicar  evaded  the  suggestion.     "By  condi- 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUATION  269 

tioning  the  general  belief  in  the  validity  of  the 
spiritual,"  he  proceeded — "I  adopt  your  preten- 
tious terminology — upon  the  possibility  of  its 
rigidly  scientific  proof,  you  would  deprive  the 
mass  of  humanity  of  their  sole  moral  corrective 
and  ethical  stimulus.  And  that,  whether  your 
scientific  proof  were  forthcoming  or  not.  It  is 
as  though  you  should  forbid  the  entire  British 
proletariat  to  eat  until  it  had  mastered  the  molec- 
ular theory." 

"Where  does  this  lead?"  fenced  Paul. 

"To  this,"  he  was  enlightened,  "that  it  is  neces- 
sary for  the  spiritual,  however  scientific  it  may 
be,  to  make  a  convincing  appeal  to  some  other 
faculty  than  the  scientific." 

Paul  rose. 

"And  thus  began,"  he  retorted  disdainfully, 
"superstition,  hierarchies,  Holy  Mother  Church, 
St.  Bartholomew,  Smithfield,  suppression  of 
knowledge,  profitable  piety,  et  hoc  genus  omne. 
Thank  you,  I  have  read  too  much  history." 

"Thus  also,"  said  the  vicar,  calmly,  "began 
aspiration,  self-sacrifice,  pity  for  the  poor,  all  the 
ennobling  fruits  of  confidence  in  the  Unseen." 

"They  will  be  evidence,"  Paul  informed  him, 
putting  the  chessmen  away,  "when  I  deny  spir- 
ituality to  be  an  enigma." 

He  assumed  a  cheerful  realism  and  took  his 
departure,  suddenly  becoming  more  drooping  and 
meditative  than  ever.  There  was  a  new  note  in 
his  bearing,  a  trifle  of  the  wanly  patient. 


270          'A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

In  the  hall  he  turned,  went  up-stairs  to  the 
door  of  Elsie's  private  parlor  and  knocked. 

"Come  in,"  he  was  requested.  lie  entered 
softly,  to  discover  Justine  reading  aloud,  and 
Elsie  ensconced  in  an  angle  of  the  sofa,  torment- 
ing the  Angora. 

"Mr.  Gotch !"  exclaimed  the  blind  girl,  spring- 
ing up  before  her  visitor;  "I'm  glad  it's  you,"  she 
added,  holding  out  her  hand ;  "what  is  the  matter 
with  Hero? — your  mother  will  only  tell  me  that 
she  has  gone  away  for  a  little  while,  Dearie  only 
sighs,  and  Justine  swears  she  can't  find  out  a 
thing.  Sit  down,  please;  it's  an  age  since  you 
were  up  here,  isn't  it? — not  since  Hero  and  you 
had  tea  together  for  the  first  time/' 

Paul  met  the  Frenchwoman's  eye,  and  made 
an  appealing  gesture.  She  nodded  kindly  and 
slipped  out  of  the  apartment.  Paul  led  Elsie  to 
the  seat  from  which  she  had  just  risen.  The 
blind  girl  felt  the  constraint  of  his  manner  and 
shivered. 

"Don't  say  she's  ill,"  he  was  adjured  piteously. 

"No,"  rejoined  Paul,  sitting  down  by  her;  he 
looked  doubtfully  at  the  classic  white  face  with 
its  swimming  violet  eyes. 

"That's  a  load  off  my  mind,"  she  assured  him, 
relieved;  "Hero  is  such  a  lot  to  me,  and  so  is 
Baby — is  it  Baby  that  is  ill?"  she  added,  with  a 
quick,  feverish  anxiety. 

"No,    nor    Baby    either,"    stammered    Paul; 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUATION  27 1 

"Elsie,  tell  me,  has  Hero  been  happy  lately? 
Tell  me  the  truth  without  fear." 

The  lustrous,  strangely-tinted  orbs  quivered  in 
sympathy  with  the  delicate  lips.  Elsie  dissented. 

"N-not  very,"  she  said ;  "but,  you  know,  Hero's 
not  the  sort  of  person  to  be  made  happy  easily. 
That's  what  comes  of  holding-  yourself  in  so 
much ;  you  get  bottled  up,  and  then  happiness 
hurts  you  as  much  as  miserableness." 

"Hero  talked  to  you  a  good  deal,"  ventured 
Paul  nervously. 

"No,  she  doesn't,"  corrected  Elsie,  not  noticing 
the  past  tense;  "she  can't  do  with  talking  about 
herself — it  hurts  her.  No,  I  just  feel  how  she 
works,  as  I  do  with  every  one." 

"And  how  do  I  work?"  asked  Paul,  half  be- 
guiled, half  halting  on  the  verge  of  his  evil  tid- 
ings. 

The  blind  girl  put  her  head  on  one  side. 

"Oh,  you,"  she  replied,  pursing  her  lips; 
"you're  bottled  up,  too,  only  you  get  rid  of  it  in 
big  words.  That's  why  it  doesn't  hurt  you. 
But  Hero  doesn't  know  any  big  words,  and  she 
doesn't  know  how  to  use  the  little  ones.  No 
more  do  you." 

"And  how  can  I  learn?"  demanded  Paul, 
thoughtfully. 

"You  can't  learn,"  he  was  informed;  "you 
don't  do  it  because  you  would  be  ashamed  of  your- 
self for  being  babyish,  and  you  won't  know  how 
to  do  it  till  you  don't  mind  that.  Justine  and 


272          'A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

Dearie  used  always  to  be  saying  to  me,  'Fie,  for 
shame!'  But  I  didn't  care,  and  now  I  can  always 
say  exactly  what  I  feel ;  so  when  I'm  miserable 
I'm  not  as  miserable  as  I  should  be  if  I  couldn't, 
and  when  I'm  happy  I'm  happier.  But  bother 
me! — what  about  Hero,  when  is  she  coming 
back?" 

The  question  smote  cruelly.  Paul  bowed  him- 
self and  wrestled  for  control. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  got  out.  brokenly. 

Elsie  groped  towards  the  sob — the  instinct  of 
compassion  translating  itself  into  that  of  touch — 
her  soft  hand,  fragile  and  feminine,  fell  upon  Paul 
Gotch's  shoulder.  Her  face  was  dilated  by  an 
agony  of  suspense;  it  drove  Paul  to  the  merciful 
definition  of  speech. 

"She  has  gone  away  from  me,  Elsie — alone, 
to  live  by  herself,"  he  said ;  "she  thinks  she  does 
not  love  me.  I  have  made  a  sad  mess  of  her  life, 
you  see." 

"How  terrible !"  whispered  Elsie,  slowly.  "But 
you — you  are  fond  of  her,  Mr.  Gotch?" 

The  viewless  eyes  did  not  embarrass,  as  sighted 
ones  would  have  done.  Paul  felt  that  some  link 
of  reticence  snapped  within  him;  the  blind  girl's 
"little  words"  sprang  to  his  tongue. 

"She  was  the  only  thing,"  he  gasped  in  a 
storm  of  tearless  emotion,  "I  ever  really  cared 
for;  I  would  have  died  to  make  her  happy." 

The  defeat  of  true  love  was  a  new  phenomenon 
to  Elsie;  she  regarded  it  with  dismay.  "You 


SPIRITUALITY  AXD  AN  EQUATION  273 

poor,  poor  people!"  she  murmured,  then  suddenly, 
"How  Hero  must  hate  herself!" 

"Don't  say  that,"  besought  Paul ;  "it's  too 
awful — I  couldn't  bear  to  know  that  I  had  first 
spoiled  her  life  and  then  made  her  think  herself 
to  blame.  It  is  my  fault ;  I  wanted  to  tie  her  to 
me." 

"Hero  has  no  right  not  to  love  you,"  snapped 
the  blind  girl,  warmed  by  his  grief,  "when  you 
love  her  as  you  do." 

"I  heard  once,  Elsie,"  remarked  Paul,  sadly, 
"that  you  had  said  you  both  liked  and  admired 
me ;  but  that  if  you  were  married  to  me  you  would 
hate  me  in  a  month.  Probably  Hero  has  found 
me  out — she  has  had  more  than  a  month,  you 
know." 

"I  didn't,"  flashed  the  accused,  tempestuously ; 
"I  said  pull  your  hair  off.  And  so  I  would,  and 
comforted  you  for  it  after — that's  how  I  work." 

There  was  silence  between  the  two  for  some 
moments.  Elsie  broke  it. 

"What  will  you  do,  Mr.  Gotch?"  she  queried. 

"Nothing,"  was  the  reply ;  "she  wishes  it.  She 
has  gone  away  to  be  free  from  me :  how  can  I 
ask  her  to  come  back  ?  If  I  would  I  do  not  know 
where  she  has  gone." 

"She  is  very  cruel,"  asserted  the  blind  girl. 

"Not  cruel,"  said  Paul ;  "honest."  It  was  the 
adjective  he  had  suggested  to  his  mother  on  the 
night  of  Hero's  departure. 

"People  have  no  business  to  ruin  everything 


274          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

with  their  honesty,"  retorted  Elsie.  "I  am  sure 
she  would  have  loved  you  if  she  had  stopped ;  I 
believe  you  must  be  able  to  make  love  far  better 
than  I  thought." 

"But  what  would  you  do,"  demanded  Paul, 
passing  over  the  naive  compliment,  "if  you  loved 
a  person  who  loved  you  back  again  and  all  the 
time  another  person  loved  you  too?" 

"If  they  were  every  bit  as  nice  as  each  other," 
said  Elsie,  defiantly  coping  writh  the  dilemma,  "I 
would  love  them  both." 

Paul  sighed. 

"Oh,"  cried  the  blind  girl;  "I  think  Hero 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself!  And  I  shan't 
like  love  any  more — I  used  to  enjoy  making  up 
love-stories,  but  I  shan't  a  bit  now;  I  think  love 
is  a  stupid,  unsensible  business  when  the  right 
people  don't  love  one  another.  So  there!" 

Paul  Gotch  accepted  this  dictum  as  closing  the 
argument,  and  paid  a  melancholy  adieu.  Elsie 
followed  him  to  the  door. 

"Mr.  Gotch,"  she  whispered,  "has  Hero  taken 
Baby?" 

"N-no,"  said  the  man  under  his  breath.  The 
confession  crushed  him. 

"May  I — may  I  come  and  nurse  him  some- 
times?" continued  the  blind  girl,  eagerly. 

Paul  assented  and  went  down-stairs;  he  was 
vaguely  conscious  that  there  was  a  glowing  beauty 
in  Elsie  Stuart's  face  which  verged  upon  the 
poignant. 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUATION  275 

He  walked  moodily  across  the  brickfield.  The 
heavy  yet  windless  rain  of  late  summer  had  fallen, 
with  rare  intervals  of  cessation,  since  daybreak. 
The  odd  panorama  was  assertively  depressing; 
though,  to  a  more  elate  sense,  there  might  have 
been  in  the  rich  red  soil,  the  beaded  brown  water, 
the  sting  of  the  soaked  air,  a  promise  of  fertility 
made  possible  by  this  meteorological  analogue  of 
sorrow. 

On  the  threshold  of  the  cottage  stood  Mar- 
garet, her  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  open  door. 
Over  against  her  was  an  umbrella-crowned  figure. 
Paul  went  up  the  path  towards  it.  From  behind 
he  perceived  that  it  wore  a  fawn  overcoat  and 
trousers  of  rough  tweed — these  latter  turned  up 
deeply  over  trim  buttoned  boots,  splashed  incon- 
gruously with  spots  of  bright  mud. 

"Some  one  to  see  me,  Margaret?"  he  asked. 
The  figure  turned;  the  waved  auburn  hair,  the 
blond  mustache,  the  full  chin,  seemed  familiar. 
Suddenly  he  recollected;  they  were  those  he  had 
seen  bent  over  a  certain  libidinous  print  one  morn- 
ing on  the  clayfield. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Margaret;  "for  Mrs.  Gotch, 
sir." 

"Ah !  then  my  mother  is  out,"  concluded  Paul. 

"Please,  sir,  it's  for  young  Mrs.  Gotch,"  he 
was  told  apprehensively. 

Paul  caught  a  swift  inhalation  before  it  had 
time  to  become  a  gasp,  and  graduated  it  to  the 


276          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

normal.  He  turned  with  grim  courtesy,  driving 
a  suspicion  to  the  arm's  length  of  intelligence. 

"My  wife  is  out  of  town,"  he  said ;  "won't  you 
come  in  till  the  rain  makes  its  next  stoppage?" 

"Thanks,  no;  I  don't  think  I  will,"  stammered 
Mr.  Jephson. 

"Nonsense!"  returned  Paul,  sharply;  the  accent 
of  dominance  decided  Mr.  Jephson,  as  it  was  in- 
tended it  should.  He  entered  the  narrow  hall, 
Margaret  taking  his  umbrella. 

Paul  showed  him  into  the  work-room, — a 
glance  had  proved  it  to  be  empty.  He  wraved  the 
visitor  to  a  lounge  and  sat  down  in  his  own  chair 
at  the  round  table,  pushing  the  screen  as  he 
passed  it,  to  hide  the  empty  "shrine"  and  the 
little  cot. 

"Shocking  weather,  isn't  it?"  he  remarked. 

"Beastly !"  said  Mr.  Jephson,  obviously  uncom- 
fortable— the  compound  discomfort  of  incertitude, 
conscious  moral  obliquity,  and  the  presence  of  a 
superior  intellect;  he  added,  with  a  gleam  of 
diplomacy,  "I  shall  really  be  glad  to  get  back  to 
Africa  before  the  winter  sets  in." 

"Going  away  for  your  health?"  inquired  the 
other,  with  obscure  malice. 

Mr.  Jephson  winced ;  the  tone  was  irritatingly 
tolerant. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  hastened  to  explain;  "business — 
engineering;  mining-stamps  this  time;  the  last 
it  was  a  bridge.  I've  only  been  in  England" — 
he  had  reached  his  conversational  objective  at 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUATION  277 

last — "a  couple  of  months  in  the  last  two  years." 

"My  wife  will  be  sorry  to  have  missed  you," 
rejoined  his  host;  "a  farewell  call,  I  presume." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Jephson,  indefinably 
alarmed.  He  fled  to  the  jocular;  "I  must  con- 
gratulate you,"  he  pursued;  "awfully  nice  to  find 
Miss  Latimer  so  happily  settled ;  I  always  had  a 
great  respect  for  her." 

"Very  good  of  you,  I'm  sure,"  answered  Paul, 
dryly;  "may  I  ask  if  you  are  married?" 

Mr.  Jephson  ventured  a  wink. 

"Not  got  that  far  yet,"  he  said;  "one  can't 
carry  a  wife  about  the  world." 

"No,"  agreed  the  other,  with  design,  "and  be- 
sides, it  isn't  necessary,  eh?" 

Again  Mr.  Jephson  winked. 

"Not  in  that  climate,"  he  said;  "by  the  way, 
may  I  have  a  cigarette  ? — I  see  this  is  your  study." 

Permission  was  given,  the  inevitable  offer  re- 
fused, and  the  scent  of  navy-cut  invaded  the 
atmosphere.  Paul's  eyes  devoured  his  guest — 
the  large,  self-satisfied  mouth,  the  restless  asser- 
tion of  the  head,  the  curious,  patronizing  nostril. 

"Nice  place  you've  got  here,"  vouchsafed  Mr. 
Jephson:  "quite  countryfied,  you  know.  You're 
a  literary  man,  aren't  you  ?" 

"A  hack  with  ambitions,"  said  Paul,  falling 
into  his  natural  manner.  Mr.  Jephson  looked 
blank. 

"You'll  be   regularly   famous   some   of  these 


278          'A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

days,"  he  declared,  recovering  himself;  "Mrs.  G. 
will  be  quite  proud  of  you." 

"An  unlikely  contingency,"  got  out  Paul,  with 
a  double  irony. 

Mr.  Jephson  swiveled  in  his  seat  and  surveyed 
a  tier  of  shelves,  puffing  his  cigarette  and  observ- 
ing their  contents. 

"You  do  a  lot  of  reading,  I  suppose?"  he  pur- 
sued. 

"Yes,"  admitted  the  other,  stricken  with  pain- 
ful amusement. 

"H'm!"  said  Mr.  Jephson;  "I  never  did  much 
of  it;  I  like  a  smart  novel,  though.  I  always 
wanted  to  learn  French,  so's  I  could  read  their 
novels,  our  fellows  are  so  awfully  narrow-minded. 
You  get  all  that  knocked  out  of  you  in  Africa. 
Gad!  I  could  tell  you  some  things  you  couldn't 
put  in  your  books." 

He  arrested  abruptly  this  flow  of  unwonted 
speech. 

"By  Jove!"  he  cried;  "the  rain's  stopped;  I'll 
make  a  bolt  for  a  tram.  Good-bye,  and  thanks 
awfully.  My  regards  to  Mrs.  Gotch." 

"Who  shall  I  tell  my  wife ?"  The  inflec- 
tion completed  the  inquiry. 

"Oh,  Jephson,"  was  the  confused  reply — 
"Jephson ;  thanks  again ;  I  turn  to  the  left,  don't 
I?  Thanks." 

And  Mr.  Jephson  splashed  along  the  cinder- 
path.  Paul  went  back  into  his  room  and  set  wide 
the  leaf  of  the  screen.  A  carbon  portrait  of  Hero 


SPIRITUALITY  AND  AN  EQUATION  .79 

hung  above  the  cot,  one  more  addition  to  the 
"shrine."  Her  husband  looked  at  it  with  an 
almost  expressionless  gaze;  a  nuance  as  of  bewil- 
derment lightened  his  countenance,  his  lips 
moved,  seeking  to  remember. 

"The  man,"  he  murmured — "the  man  that 
stakes  his  spiritual  all  upon  a  hypothetical  great- 
ness in  the  soul  of  a  woman — what  was  he  to  do  ? 
I  forget.  Speak  bitterly ;  that  was  it.  Oh,  Hero, 
Hero,  that  I  should  have  to  fight  for  silence!" 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

INCREASE    OF    DEFINITION 

HERO  was  wakened  in  the  morning-  by  a  tap- 
ping at  the  outer  entrance  of  the  flat.  She  gath- 
ered a  dubious  consciousness  in  shock  after  shock 
of  disgustful  perception — then,  constraining  her- 
self determinedly,  put  out  a  hand  and  roused  her 
unkempt  neighbor. 

"Mrs.  Maitland,"  she  said,  anxiously,  "some 
one  is  knocking  at  the  — the  front  door." 

Phemie  Maitland  stirred,  threw  out  a  drowsy 
arm  and  murmured  mysteriously:  "It's  Edith; 
pop  something  on  and  let  her  in,  there's  a  dear; 
I've  got  such  a  head  this  morning." 

Reassured  by  the  feminine  cognomen,  though 
irritated  at  her  companion's  indolent  presump- 
tion, Hero  dressed  hastily,  went  through  to  the 
tiny  entrance  hall,  and  unfastened  the  door  which 
led  therefrom  to  the  landing.  Without  stood 
a  small  and  intensely  slatternly  girl,  probably  of 
some  twelve,  possibly  of  some  sixteen  summers; 
her  face  and  figure  gave  diverse  warrant  for 
either. 

Marking  her  lack  of  intimacy  with  Hero  by  a 
280 


INCREASE  OP  DEFINITION        j8i 

surreptitious  stare,  this  odd  little  person  picked 
up  a  milk-can  from  the  threshold,  walked  in,  and 
made  for  the  rear  of  the  flat.  Hero  followed,  to 
perceive  the  new-comer  in  the  act  of  lighting  a 
gas  cooking-stove.  Taking  it  for  granted  that 
Edith,  like  the  ill-fated  fish  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
was  "in  her  duty,"  she  returned  to  the  bedroom 
and  completed  her  toilet.  It  was  significant  of 
her  natural  shrewdness  that  she  locked  the  Glad- 
stone bag  after  using  it — it  had,  as  most  of  these 
otherwise  useful  articles  have  not,  wards  of  a 
strong  and  unusual  type.  While  she  arranged 
it  to  close,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  silver  cup 
that  she  had  thrust  into  it  on  leaving,  and  felt 
that  this  had  become,  in  some  inexplicable  fashion, 
hateful  to  her. 

Finding  that  Mrs.  Maitland  still  slumbered 
heavily,  she  passed  out  again  to  the  kitchen, 
which  was  in  shape  and  size  an  exaggerated  cup- 
board. The  slatternly  girl  was  about  filling  a 
tea-pot,  having  set  out  on  a  tray,  one  plate- 
containing  one  round  of  dry  toast  and  one  pat  of 
butter — one  knife,  cup,  saucer,  and  spoon.  With- 
out a  word  she  filled  the  cup,  sugared  it,  added  a 
dash  of  milk  and  carried  the  tray  to  Mrs.  Mait- 
land. Reappearing,  the  other  heard  her  voice  for 
the  first  time. 

"She  says,"  Hero  was  informed  with  an  indica- 
tive jerk,  "'at  I  am  to  ask  you  if  you  would  like 
a  cup." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Hero,  "I  would,  please;  let 


282          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

me  wash  one  for  you" — this  from  purely  inter- 
ested motives.  She  stepped  to  the  squalid  sink 
and  rinsed  some  china  with  elaborate  thorough- 
ness, waiving  the  drying  process — there  was  no 
sufficiently  inviting  tea-towel  within  sight. 

"You  are  Edith?"  she  inquired,  while  so  en- 
gaged. 

"Yus,"  owned  the  attendant,  with  the  inde- 
scribable inflection  of  the  Cockney  affirmative. 
Hero  was  about  to  pour  herself  out  some  tea, 
when  she  recollected  that  the  leaf  quite  probably 
had  been  introduced  by  Edith's  grimy  fingers  in 
lieu  of  a  spoon,  and  that  the  pot  itself  had  con- 
ceivably not  been  cleaned  for  an  age.  She  asked 
demurely  for  the  caddy  and  made  a  fresh  lot  in 
one  of  her  washed  cups.  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
could  she  drink.  Edith  contemplated  her  with 
cynical  respect — Hero  felt  called  upon  to  explain, 
mendaciously. 

"I  haven't  to  let  my  tea  stand  more  than  a  min- 
ute," she  said ;  "I  have  indigestion  if  I  do." 

"The  other  was  just  made,"  was  the  discom- 
fiting response.  Hero  laughed;  not  so  Edith, 
who  preserved  a  morose  gravity.  The  former 
looked  at  her  watch.  "Half-past  nine!"  she 
cried;  "good  gracious!  what  about  breakfast?" 

"I  had  mine  at  seving,"  said  Edith,  briefly; 
"Mrs.  Maitland  won't  want  none  for  hours." 

Hero  groaned  in  spirit;  the  tea  had  called  up 
her  thwarted  appetite  as  the  Scriptural  strong 
man  rejoicing  to  run  his  race. 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION 

"Are  you  hungry?"  she  asked  confidentially. 

"I'm  always  'ungry,"  was  the  startling  admis- 
sion. A  florin  descended  in  the  small,  dirty 
palm. 

"Get  a  shilling's  worth  of  new-laid  eggs,"  was 
the  accompanying  instruction,  "and  two  slices  of 
ham — not  very  thick." 

Edith  shambled  off — she  wore  flaccid  boots, 
three  sizes  beyond  necessity.  At  the  kitchen  door 
she  turned,  eyeing  Hero  with  absorbed  attention. 

Left  alone,  "Miss  Lancaster"  cleansed  a  pan, 
emptying  the  kettle  for  that  purpose — there  was 
no  hot  water.  Then  she  scrubbed  down  a  portion 
of  the  dingy  "fixed"  dresser  and  washed  some 
more  crockery.  There  was  a  cigarette-end  or  two 
in  the  saucer  of  a  coffee-cup ;  she  made  a  grimace 
as  she  tossed  them  out. 

Edith  arrived  belatedly.  "I'd  a  fair  do  to 
get  them  eggs  fresh,"  she  announced.  Hero  put 
on  the  ham;  as  it  began  to  fill  the  kitchen  with 
its  tasteful  aroma  Edith  plunged  into  the  little 
hall.  She  returned  triumphant.  "Thought  I'd 
better  shut  her  door,"  was  the  solution  of  this 
sortie.  Its  maker  closed  that  of  the  kitchen  as 
she  spoke. 

There  being  no  table  in  the  latter  apartment, 
Hero  contrived — fearing  wholesomely  Miss 
Edith's  native  grime — to  carry  into  the  sitting- 
room  in  one  tray-load  all  that  was  required  for 
the  proposed  meal.  After  these  measures  of  self- 
protection  she  was  able  to  enjoy  it  with  the  des- 


284          "A   SON  OF  'AUSTERITY 

peration  of  an  eighteen-hours'  practical  fast. 
Edith  ate  with  the  curb  on,  her  palate  fighting 
her  hunger. 

"You  can  cook!''  she  observed,  pushing  her 
chair  back;  "I  shan't  mind  turning  to  after  that. 
It's  my  day  for  cleaning  out  the  flat/'  she  supple- 
mented. 

Hero  shivered  and  began  to  clear  the  table. 
While  she  washed  the  used  dishes  Edith  bound 
her  head  in  an  alarmingly  antique  duster  and 
swept  the  parlor  carpet.  Then,  without  more 
ado,  she  commenced  to  dust.  Hero  found  her  oc- 
cupied in  this  futile  proceeding. 

"Hadn't  you  better  wait  till  the  dust  settles?" 
she  ventured. 

"I  want  to  get  'ome  to-dy,"  said  Edith,  with 
oblique  satire. 

"Then  leave  it,  and  I'll  do  it,"  Hero  told  her. 
The  criticised  paused  to  consider. 

"Oh,  I'll  wait,"  said  Edith  sharply,  shook  the 
duster — now  removed  from  her  inelegant  coiffure 
— and  marched  into  the  kitchen,  which  she  began, 
on  her  knees,  to  mop  with  a  dripping  cloth  and  no 
little  soap.  The  spectator  gathered  up  her  skirts, 
feeling  much  as  Falstaff  did  in  the  buck-basket. 
To  her — as  to  another  more  famous — dirt  was 
the  primary  devil.  She  had,  perforce,  to  dust 
the  immature  sitting-room.  As  she  opened  the 
window  she  saw  that  outside  was  a  fair  August 
morning.  Folk  loitered  in  the  street  below,  a 
'bus  rattled  cheerfully  from  wood  to  asphalt,  there 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION        285 

was  a  gay  optimism  in  the  air — the  thrill  of  Lon- 
don's good  humor;  the  metropolis  is  hugely  ca- 
pricious. In  such  moments  the  most  detached 
of  her  units  can  not  be  lonely. 

When  she  had  finished  with  the  small,  shad- 
owy room  it  was  more  definitely  habitable  than  it 
had  seemed  the  previous  evening.  Incidentally 
she  studied  the  photographs  on  the  mantel— 
mostly  feminine,  all  of  the  ultra-theatrical  type, 
revelatory,  seductive,  appealing — the  appeal  of 
the  sledge-hammer. 

Mrs.  Maitland  came  in  to  find  her  weighing 
these  phenomena  of  civilization.  Phemie  had 
stayed  to  don  a  trio  of  mechanical  "curlers" — 
parents  of  those  sinuous  tendrils  which  lie  like 
arabesques  upon  the  forehead.  The  metal  con- 
trivances pointed  themselves  at  Hero  as  artillery 
from  an  eminence. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting  so  long  for  break- 
fast," said  Phemie,  sweetly;  "admiring  my  pic- 
tures? They're  all  friends  in  the  profession,  on 
the  stage,  you  know.  My  word,  Edith  has  been 
busy!"  she  regarded  her  surroundings,  struck  by 
their  unwonted  brightness.  Catching  sight  of  a 
duster  in  Hero's  hand  she  shrugged  her  ample 
shoulders.  "Oh!"  she  commented,  "it's  you — I 
suppose  you  got  the  jumps  doing  nothing;  it's 
very  nice  of  you,  all  the  same.  Did  Edith  think 
to  give  you  anything  to  put  on  with? — there 
wasn't  much  in,  I'm  afraid." 


286  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

"I  ventured,"  rejoined  her  guest,  blushing 
furiously,  "to  send  out  for  something." 

"How  really  sensible  you  are!"  said  Phemie, 
calmly,  sitting  down:  "got  any  left?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Hero;  "it  was  ham  and  eggs 
— may  I  cook  you  some?" 

"Miss  Lancaster,"  was  the  yawning  reply,  "you 
are  simply  too  good  for  this  world." 

Phemie  set  a  cushion  behind  her  head,  lit  the 
gas-stove — despite  the  brilliance  of  the  day — and 
stretched  out  her  feet.  In  this  chaste  posture  she 
awaited  the  arrival  of  her  breakfast,  which  she 
disposed  of  ravenously. 

"Well,"  she  vouchsafed,  on  getting  to  her  third 
cup  of  terrifyingly  strong  tea,  "you  see  what  sort 
of  a  place  I  have  here.  Mr.  Maitland  pays  thirty 
bob  a  week  for  it" — which  was  an  exaggeration  of 
t\venty-five  per  cent. — "suppose  I  ask  you  half-a- 
sovereign,  and  you  to  go  halves  in  the  house- 
keeping?" 

Thus  challenged,  Hero's  instincts  shied  as  a 
horse  from  a  wolf;  she  drew  together  the  words 
of  a  refusal.  Suddenly  the  wailing  of  the  child 
penetrated  to  their  ears.  Hero  rose  automatic-, 
ally. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Phemie;  "Edith  will  take 
him."  The  shambling  footsteps  across  the  en- 
trance-hall showed — albeit  tardily — that  Edith 
had  decided  to  do  so.  The  only  outcome  was  a 
more  pertinacious  sobbing.  Hero  went  to  the 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION        287 

bedroom  and  gathered  the  weeper  into  her  arms ! 
It  cried  still,  though  less  loudly. 

"The  child  must  be  starving!"  exclaimed  Hero, 
conscience-stricken;  "it's  hours  since  it  had  any- 
thing; hold  it" — to  the  amateur  nurse— "while 
I  make  some  food." 

Again  Edith's  eyes  set  up  an  inquisition  upon 
the  speaker's  face — black,  sober,  alert  if  childish, 
they  incarnated  apprehension  rather  than  compre- 
hension. Hero  fed  the  child  in  the  kitchen;  the 
languid  presence  of  Phemie  was  irritating  to  her. 
Its  wants  satisfied,  the  youngling  proved  wake- 
ful, though  quiet ;  it  smiled  amicably  at  its  minis- 
trant.  Hero  talked  to  it,  reminding  it  of  the  pic- 
tures in  the  train,  the  dog  that  barked,  the  cow 
that  "mooed;"  it  jerked  its  impotent  limbs  and 
babbled  back  meaninglessly.  The  woman's  heart 
warmed  to  it;  old  habits  prompted  her.  She 
stepped  to  the  sitting-room. 

"May  I  bathe  baby,  Mrs.  Maitland?"  she 
asked. 

"If  you  like,"  gaped  that  person  indifferently; 
"he  was  bathed  only  last  Sunday,  but  I  dare  say 
it  will  amuse  him." 

"Sunday,"  reflected  the  astonished  Hero,  "and 
this  is  Thursday !  Poor  little  thing !" 

She  got  out  the  requisite  paraphernalia,  and 
soon  had  the  child  splashing  and  crowing  in  the 
warm  water;  it  was  usually — as  has  been  said — 
stolid  to  exasperation,  but  Hero  bullied  it  into 


288  A    SON    OF  AUSTERITY 

mirth.  Edith's  gaze  followed  her  acutely.  Once 
her  thoughts  filtered  into  speech. 

"You  was  one  of  a  big  family!"  she  hazarded. 
Hero  fathomed  her,  and  told  the  necessary  fib. 

"How  many?"  pursued  the  inquisitress. 

"Seven,"  said  Hero,  with  an  effort.  Lies 
breed  lies,  nor  are  white  ones  less  prolific  than 
those  of  the  darker  shade.  Seven  seemed  the 
smallest  justification  of  the  adjective  "large." 

"I'm  one  of  twelve,"  continued  Edith;  "was 
yours  mostly  brothers  or  sisters?" 

"About  half-and-half,"  defined  Hero,  evasive- 
ly; "move  the  bath  away,  there's  a  good  girl. 
How  soon  ought  you  to  be  going — do  you  come 
for  the  day?" 

"It's  about  as  I  like  to  make  it/'  admitted  the 
employed,  candidly ;  "I  can  always  say  she  would 
have  me  stop ;  I  get  half-a-crownd  a  week,  so  they 
can't  do  too  much.  Are  you  going  to  be  here 
always  now?" 

Hero  hesitated;  one  child  was  kicking  in  her 
lap ;  another,  only  less  happily  childish,  stood  be- 
fore her.  Each  seemed  mutely  beseeching  her  to 
remain.  She  contemplated  her  sixty  pounds  in 
reserve,  and  answered  thoughtfully :  "For  a  while, 
yes ;  always  is  a  very  long  time." 

"Then,"  said  Edith,  with  meditative  ingenuity, 
"I  shall  tell  'em  as  she  says  I've  to  stop  the  whole 
dy  nar;  you  don't  mind,  do  you?" 

She  bent  her  knees  to  scan  the  deciding  counte- 
nance ;  her  thin  hands  rested  upon  them,  her  black 


INCREASE  Ol<  DEI' I  NIT  ION        289 

orbs  grew  wider  and  blacker.  The  elder  woman 
shook  her  head  pitifully,  and  went  on  drying  the 
baby's  pink  skin.  The  earthly  was  drawing  into 
focus  again — her  vision  had  been  approximating 
to  the  telescopic. 

Mrs.  Maitland  surprised  them  soon  after  this. 
She  was  ready  to  go  out,  her  hair  crimped  won- 
derfully and  brought  over  her  temples,  a  new  hat 
on.  her  ulster  more  staring  than  ever. 

"I  must  run  and  see  my  dressmaker,  dear;"  she 
said.  "You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you?  Edith 
can  look  after  baby." 

"Certainly,"  rejoined  Hero — it  was  the  inev- 
itable answer. 

"And  you'll  make  up  your  mind  to  stay  ?"  fished 
Phemie;  "do,  dear — I  should  be  sorry  to  lose 
you.  I  must  get  some  one  to  help  pay  expenses" 
— this  pathetically — "and  baby  mightn't  take  to 
any  one  else." 

Hero  glanced  down  at  the  tiny  face  on  her 
bosom ;  Edith's  eyes  were  beacons  of  suspense. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad,"  she  murmured;  "for  a 
while."  Then,  with  an  inspiration :  "It  depends 
where  I  can  get  work." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Mrs.  Phemie,  pleased 
with  this  instalment  of  so  convenient  a  victory; 
"and  you'll  need  a  bit  to  look  round,  won't  you  ? — 
it  doesn't  do  to  be  in  a  hurry.  Good-bye  for  the 
present,  then.  Bye-bye,  Babs!" — she  waggled  a 
plump  hand  at  the  child ;  "mind  you  do  what  Miss 
Lancaster  tells  you,  Edith."  And  thus,  reeking 


290  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

of  patchouli  and  Happing  the  heavy  clotii  flounce 
of  her  ulster  over  a  pair  of  high-heeled  boots,  Mrs. 
Phemie  Maitland  sallied  forth. 

The  next  few  hours  passed  uneventfully. 
"Babs"  occupied  Hero;  Edith  chattered  disjoint- 
edly,  yet  without  cessation.  Profiting  by  Phemie's 
absence.  Hero  had  all  the  windows  and  other 
ventilating  devices  of  the  flat  brought  successively 
into  play;  the  "stuffy"  odor  of  the  suite,  compli- 
cated by  the  dregs  of  cheap  scent,  was  insuppprt- 
able  to  her  free  nostrils. 

A  belated  tea-lunch  over,  she  sent  the  loqua- 
cious Edith  home :  the  glib  Cockney  tongue  was 
wearing  in  continuous  operation.  The  baby  went 
willingly  to  bed,  the  fatigues  of  the  preceding  day 
hung  about  its  infantile  brain.  Quiescence  fell 
on  Hero  like  a  shroud. 

She  sat  by  the  open  casement  of  the  parlor, 
musing.  The  street  noises  were  subdued  by  dis- 
tance and  the  languor  of  the  afternoon;  behind 
her  and  on  either  side  brooded  an  oppressive 
silence,  the  multiplex  solitudes  of  superincum- 
bent habitations. 

Some  profoundly  perceptive  intuition  had  cor- 
ralled, in  a  remote  corner  of  her  consciousness, 
all  thoughts  of  the  immediate  Past;  she  would 
not  permit  herself  to  ponder  them.  Yet  they 
fumed  ominously  in  their  isolation ;  they  reviewed 
themselves,  since  she  would  not.  She  could  only 
avert  her  attention. 

In  despair,  she  sought  for  a  book;  there  were 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION        291 

some  on  the  top  of  the  single  tall  cupboard  in  the 
bedroom.  She  carried  to  the  window-seat  in  the 
parlor  half-a-dozen  paper-backed  volumes,  trash- 
ily produced,  their  titles  in  staring  black  capitals 
on  the  front  cover.  It  could  not  honestly  be  said 
that  certain  of  these  latter  startled  her,  rather  they 
forbade  her.  She  peeped  into  one  volume,  caught 
at  a  sentence,  and  read  on.  Once  or  twice  the 
hand  that  held  the  thing  drooped,  but  she  did  not 
abandon  her  undecided  perusal.  There  was  not 
a  great  deal  of  print  in  any  of  the  books,  and  Hero 
was  a  quick  reader — she  passed  from  one  to 
another.  Meanwhile  the  afternoon  slipped 
towards  evening — the  sky  reddened,  the  light  de- 
creased. There  were  delicate  shadows  about  the 
face  in  the  dormer  window;  the  air  fluttered  a 
stray  curl  on  the  nape  of  the  white  neck. 

A  noise  on  the  distant  landing  roused  her;  she 
listened,  but  it  died  away.  The  tenant  of  some 
adjacent  flat  had  returned;  Phemie  still  lingered. 
Hero  sprang  up — feeling  as  one  who  has  nar- 
rowly escaped  detection  in  the  commission  of 
some  crime — and  restored  the  books  to  their 
place  in  the  bedroom.  Then  she  sat  down  once 
more  and  abandoned  herself  to  a  process  of  men- 
tal digestion. 

She  had  a  quick,  inethical  sense  of  humor,  a 
controlling,  though  passive,  interest — also  ineth- 
ical— in  human  nature,  and  a  share  of  that  in- 
stinctive cynicism  which  fathered  the  epigram: 
"Scratch  a  Christian  and  you  find  a  savage." 


292  A   SOX   OF   AUSTERITY 

Romance  was  to  her — as  it  had  been  to  Elsie — a 
psychological  fetish.  But  the  blind  girl  had  loved 
to  finger  its  butterfly  wings  ;  Hero,  more  perspica- 
cious, sawr  that  the  idol  had  feet  of  clay.  She 
had  a  ready — internal — sneer  for  those  who,  in 
speech  or  type,  denied  the  fact.  As  for  kissing 
these  clayey  foundations,  that  was  another  mat- 
ter; yet  intuition  kept  her  from  mocking  the 
genuflecting  worshiper. 

Indisputably,  Romance  is  monogamic — thus 
the  feet  of  clay  are  overlaid  with  silver.  The  acid 
of  Domesticity  revealing  the  ignoble  extremities, 
a  vulgar  jollity — sacro-sanct  by  centuries — coats 
them  against  the  weather.  It  is  this  jollity  that 
sets  the  judgment  tripping;  it  amalgamates 
coarseness  and  common-sense  in  a  chemical  par- 
adox; sub-acid  to  Romance,  it  negates  the  sour- 
ness of  morals.  Its  appeal  to  Shakespeare  is  of 
immortal  memory ;  on  it  twro-fifths  of  the  world's 
literature  have  been  built. 

In  a  Serbonian  and  primeval  bog  of  doubt 
Hero  waded  to  the  knee.  If  its  tepid  exhalations 
blinded  her,  she  had  the  sense  to  perceive  that 
under  her  cautious  tread  the  bottom  sloped — into 
an  abyss.  At  such  a  pass  one  can  not  swim — in 
a  bog. 

The  chime  of  the  parish  bells  came  to  her; 
drifting  upon  religion,  her  lip  noted  her  disdain. 
Sheffield  says  of  Charles  the  Second  that  he  had 
discarded  Christianity  not  so  much  by  dint  of 
reflection  as  of  perception.  It  was  the  case  with 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION        J<j3 

Hero ;  she  saw  concretely  that  the  austere  basis  of 
orthodoxy  is  inconsistent,  not  only  with  the  con- 
ventional superstructure,  but  also  with  the  facts 
of  the  struggle  for  existence  and  the  concomitant 
appetites  of  the  human  species.  The  estimate 
demands  an  assiduous  definition ;  in  Hero  it  was 
pure  thought,  naked  of  words.  In  this  form  the 
knowledge  lies  at  the  back  of  the  national  head; 
ecclesiasticism  blinks  the  fact — diplomatically. 

Nevertheless,  Hero  groped  for  the  delimitation 
between  the  human  and  the  animal.  Propriety 
did  not  afford  it;  she  jibbed  at  that  socially  futile 
pietism  which  begets  cant.  Dumas  had  entrapped 
her  sympathy  without  smirching  it — he  has  a 
trick  of  euphemistic  gallantry.  Not  so  with 
other  of  his  compatriots.  Thus  arose  the  prob- 
lem at  present  before  Hero — she  was  too  proud 
not  to  fumigate  her  mind  with  an  intelligent, 
even  if  scarcely  conscious,  question  or  two.  They 
drove  her  towards  misanthropy;  a  deeper  cyni- 
cism than  she  had  yet  known  shadowed  her  hori- 
zon. 

One  may  reason  largely  in  the  confines  of  sec- 
onds. Hero  did,  disregarding  the  insistent  past 
as  her  judgment  struggled  to  poise  itself  above 
certain  Gallic  translations.  It  was  a  token  of 
mental  vigor  that  promised  much.  Indeed,  more 
than  one  personal  equation  was  involved.  The 
odd  tangle  which  had  produced  her  flight  from 
the  Gotch  dwelling  had  taken  its  first  twist  at 
the  hands  of  the  erotic.  She  had  married  with- 


294          'A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

out  loving.  How  quickly  she  had  learned  to 
trust,  to  respect,  even  to  admire !  Her  husband 
was  young,  passionate,  devoted.  The  missing 
link  in  her  discarded  fetters  had  been  the  physical 
— she  had  not  been  able  to  warm  to  the  man  Paul. 
Yet  a  faint  spark — pity,  the  sense  of  masculine 
dominance,  she  knew  not  what,  had  rendered  the 
man  Jephson  dangerous. 

Many  things  became  clearer ;  that  introspective 
melancholy  which  had  been  the  recoil  of  her 
husband's  more  ardent  moods,  the  oddly  analyt- 
ical bent  of  his  mind  when  it  encountered  the 
gross,  his  haunting  dissatisfaction  with  the  ma- 
terial— they  suddenly  ceased  to  irritate  her.  She 
herself  grew  resentful — her  resentment  directed 
itself  against  Nature,  who  had  so  inseparably 
yoked  appetite  and  contentment.  A  throb  of  de- 
prived companionship  pained  her — she  felt  Paul's 
absence. 

Jephson !  He  flared  upon  the  field  of  her  men- 
tal vision  as  if  picked  out  by  the  calcium  light. 
She  was  angry  with  him,  angry  with  herself — 
each  anger  fed  the  other.  Both  weakened,  smit- 
ten through  with  compassion.  He,  too,  was  an 
ardent,  beseeching  man,  a  trifle  foolishly  so — no 
sin  to  a  feminine  judge.  She  shirked  decision; 
once  more  resentment  filled  her  mind.  Two  men 
and  a  woman,  and  neither  happy,  neither  content ! 
Her  emotions  were  as  fretful  as  Hamlet's;  with 
her,  too,  the  time  was  out  of  joint.  It  was  the 
sum  total  of  the  position. 


INCREASE  OF  DEFINITION        295 

Her  baby !  Then,  indeed,  she  wept — the  cords 
of  motherhood  are  very  strong.  In  a  spasm  of 
fancy  she  heard  it  wail  for  her,  the  inarticulate 
clamor  of  a  nursling,  so  piteous  yet  so  enigmatic, 
how  it  beats  upon  the  maternal  ear !  It  was  her 
child,  the  son  of  her  body,  and  she  had  left  it. 
She  shrank,  horrified,  from  the  realization. 

Yet  it  was  not  hers,  she  reminded  herself;  she 
had  not  desired  it;  it  was  the  fruit  of  a  strange 
cowardice,  that  cowardice  which  she  had  always 
diagnosed  in  herself.  The  maternal  ceased  to 
clutch  her,  but  she  still  wept,  thinking  too  con- 
fusedly for  record.  Sickening  with  a  headache, 
she  made  some  tea;  being  oppressed  with  loneli- 
ness, she  picked  the  least  terribly-titled  of  the 
translations  and  began  to  read  it  through. 

Phemie  came  home  before  the  reader  had  ex- 
hausted the  merrily  mephitic  pages.  She  herself 
was  full  of  apologies  and  good  humor.  Also, 
she  was  redolent  of  wine — the  ripely  spirituous 
odor  of  port. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

LOVE,      TIME,      AND     DEATH 

THAT  which  had  happened  to  the  man  Paul  left 
him  mentally  effete ;  hours  of  a  distressful  leisure 
sundered  each  interval  of  work — he  physicked 
them  with  pursuits  of  a  more  mechanical  order. 
A  square-topped  table  of  white  deal  made  its 
appearance  in  his  room ;  he  crowded  it  with  work- 
ing models,  electrical  and  others,  deriving  fre- 
quent instalments  of  an  odd  solace  from  the 
manipulation  of  their  miniature  dynamics.  One 
day  he  brought  home  a  large  refracting  telescope ; 
thereafter  it  reared  its  brazen  cylinder  in  the  bay 
window.  Occasionally  he  carried  it  out  on  the 
clayfield  to  scan  the  northern  portion  of  the  firm- 
ament. He  slept  only  in  the  small  hours. 

His  mother  interested  herself  in  his  doings — 
an  awkward  maternal  condolence  prompting  her, 
her  voice  trembled  when  she  addressed  him.  She 
aided  him  where  she  could — shyly,  reticently,  as 
if  shunning  comparison  between  her  sapless  min- 
istry and  the  fresh  womanhood  whose  departure 
he  mourned.  Yet  there  was  that  in  her  quiver- 
ing sympathy  which  moved  him — indescribably. 
296 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH        297 

Smitten  once  in  this  fashion,  he  stroked  a  thin 
hand  and  said,  without  lifting  his  gaze  from  the 
delicate  triple-expansion  gear  which  he  was  study- 
ing: 

"I  wasn't  very  good  to  you,  was  I? — before 
Hero  came — and  went.  Elsie  says  people 
shouldn't  bottle  themselves  up;  I  am  only  just 
learning  not  to.  Poor  old  dear,  you  have  been 
bottled  up  all  your  life,  and  taught  me  your  bad 
habit.  Think  how  many  kind  things  we  might 
have  said  to  each  other — you  and  I !  Instead  of 
which  our  recollections  are  of  silence — and  de- 
bate." 

"Actions  speak  louder  than  words,"  replied 
Mrs.  Gotch,  with  an  irrepressible  dryness. 

Paul  smiled  sadly. 

"Nor  need  yours  be  ashamed  of  their  story," 
he  murmured,  "let  mine  hide  theip  heads  as  they 
may.  But  actions  are  like  bricks,  you  may  build 
a  house  with  them ;  you  can  not  upholster  it  with- 
out paste  and  paper.  You  may  line  a  room  to 
look  like  a  fairy  bower  or  a  fishmonger's  shop. 
Words  are  the  upholstery  of  deeds.  Did  I  ever 
tell  you  that  I  loved  you? — yet  I  do.  Once  I 
hardly  thought  I  did,  our  wills  clashed  so  fiercely. 
You  felt  that.  Could  actions  heal  the  wound? 
If  you  or  I  died,  would  it  not  be  pleasant  to  re- 
member that  on  such  and  such  a  day,  being 
together,  we  had  said — the  living  to  the  living 
that  was  now  the  dead,  'I  love  you,'  and  the  dead 
to  the  living  that  now  was  left  alone,  'I  love  you, 


298          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

also'?  It  is  not  the  lack  of  deeds  that  embitters 
the  decent  grief  of  upright  folk,  it  is  the  un- 
spoken word,  the  veiled  heart." 

"I  should  hope  you  didn't  need  telling  after  all 
I've  done  to  show  you,"  said  his  mother,  stung. 

"Not  now,"  answered  Paul;  "because  I  myself 
have  loved  and  suffered,  and  I  can  see.  But 
before — is  not  duty  your  admitted  watchword; 
were  you  not  responsible  for  my  existence,  and, 
therefore,  to  a  point,  for  my  sins,  with  which  you 
were  as  bound  to  wrestle  as  to  provide  me  food? 
It  is  more  to  be  wondered  at  that  mother  and  son 
should  love  each  other  than  husband  and  wife." 

"It  is,"  owned  Mrs.  Gotch;  "but  that  doesn't 
make  it  right." 

"Is  love  a  thing  to  be  earned?"  asked  her  son, 
gently ;  "I  have  tried  to  earn  it  and  am  defeated. 
A  man  and  a  woman  in  love — if  poets  are  to  be 
trusted — tell  one  another  twenty  times  a  day 
that  they  love  each  other,  and  love  all  the  better 
for  the  repetition.  Yet  there  is  no  duty  on  either 
side,  their  love  is  free,  ample,  self-revealing. 
When  duty  enters — as  with  you  and  me — if  love 
does  not  sometimes  confess  itself  as  love,  it  may 
die  of  silence,  being  thought  by  one  or  other  not 
to  be.  I  doubt  if  I  really  loved  you  when  you 
did  what  most  you  imagine  should  command  my 
love ;  when  you  struggled  and  sacrificed  for  me  so 
bravely.  You  built  me  a  brick  room  to  live  in 
and  I  hankered  for  plaster  and  wall-papers.  For 
bricks  one  returns  duty,  for  wall-paper  love ;  man 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH        299 

is  an  illogical  brute.  Do  you  know  why  I  love 
you  now,  mother  of  mine  ?" 

Mrs.  Gotch  touched  the  brimming  tear-  from 
her  lashes;  she  could  not  speak. 

"Because,"  said  Paul,  still  stroking  the  fine, 
strong  fingers,  "because  you  are  my  mother,  and 
desolate;  because  life  has  been  bitter  in  your 
mouth,  but  most  of  all  because,  while  my  heart  is 
breaking  for  a  woman  wTho  is  nothing  to  you, 
your  heart,  forgetting  itself,  bleeds  for  me.  There 
is  a  language  of  gesture;  it  has  told  me  this. 
And  now  I  know  that  I  love  you,  you  gray,  grave 
paradox  of  warm  blood  and  cold  lips.  Ten  min- 
utes from  now  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  have  told 
you  so,  and  you  will  wonder  if  you  have  dreamed 
it.  But  ten  years  hence  there  may  be  balm  in 
the  memory  of  this  odd  moment." 

He  set  the  model  going;  it  throbbed  steadily. 
Mrs.  Gotch  drooped  her  head  upon  her  arms,  and 
stayed  so  for  some  while.  Paul  brought  the  toy 
to  rest  and  left  his  seat  abruptly.  He  paused  be- 
side his  mother's  chair ;  she  rose  also,  drying  her 
eyes.  Paul  glanced  at  her  wistfully,  then  moved 
to  kiss  her.  She  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
he  drew  her  to  him,  swayed  by  a  strangely  acute 
emotion.  Selina  Gotch  hid  her  face;  the  fingers 
on  her  son's  shoulder  contracted  in  a  mute  signifi- 
cance; he  put  his  lips  impulsively  to  the  white 
tresses.  A  sob  burst  from  his  mother's  throat; 
she  released  herself  and  hurried  from  the  room. 

Paul  walked  the  floor   for  half-an-hour,   the 


300          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

peripatetic  habit  grew  upon  him  almost  daily. 
Elsie  arrested  his  meditative  sentry-go ;  she  came 
in,  nursing  the  child  Cyril.  Beside  the  infantile 
head,  as  it  lay  on  her  breast,  was  an  odorous  spray 
of  white  lilac. 

"Have  you  got  any  sunshine  in  here?"  she 
demanded,  on  the  threshold. 

Paul  looked  toward  the  window ;  at  one  of  the 
narrow  sashes  there  still  lingered  the  glory  of  the 
afternoon.  He  said  as  much  to  the  blind  girl; 
she  went  across  and  sat  down. 

"I  felt  it  go  from  the  other  window,"  she  told 
him;  "it's  a  horrible  feeling  to  have  the  sun  get 
off  you — you  turn  all  chilly  and  miserable.  It's 
like  music  going  by  outside  and  dying  away  and 
away  and  away.  And  suddenly  it's  gone,  and 
you  shiver  all  over  your  skin." 

She  raised  the  free  tip  of  the  lilac  spray  with 
a  fragile  finger  and  drew  a  long  breath.  The 
child  was  slumbering  profoundly  in  the  hollow  of 
her  arm ;  the  sunlight  irradiated  her  subtle  counte- 
nance. She  fluttered  a  palm  fantastically. 

"Dear,  dear  sunshine,"  she  said;  "how  happy 
you  make  me!  Aren't  they  beautiful  pieces  of 
emptiness,"  she  adjured  him — "sunshine  and 
music  and  flowers?  One  creeps,  creeps,  creeps 
away  from  you,  one  shrivels  up  and  smells — pah ! 
and  one  goes  into  nothing  on  the  last  note  and 
leaves  you  aching.  And  yet  they're  the  loveliest 
things  there  are.  Why  do  you  suppose  it  is,  Mr. 
Gotch?" 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH        301 

"Who  can  say!"  answered  the  other,  pitying 
her;  "perhaps  to  beget  in  us  an  immortal  hunger 
for  the  eternally  beautiful,  the  everlastingly  real." 

"Do  you  believe  in  Eternity?"  asked  Elsie, 
with  a  reversion  to  her  cynical  directness ;  "isn't 
it  just  a  word?" 

"Scarcely,"  said  Paul ;  "you  see,  the  question 
is  whether  Eternity  believes  in  me,  not  I  in  it. 
A  man  counts  with  the  clock  for  an  hour,  then 
stops ;  does  the  clock  stop  ?  He  that  counted  with 
the  clock  dies;  does  the  clock  falter?  Stop  the 
clock  yourself ;  does  time  stop  ?" 

Elsie  shuddered. 

"I  know,"  she  confessed;  "I  dream  like  that 
sometimes,  and  when  I  wake  up  I'm  stiff  with 
fright.  I  do  dream  the  most  hideous  things. 
Once  I  thought  I  was  putting  out  my  arms 
farther  and  farther,  feeling  for  the  end  of  every- 
thing. And  my  hands  went  out  and  out  and  out, 
and  my  arms  grew  as  thin  as  cotton,  but  I 
couldn't  feel  anything.  And  I  screamed  so  loud 
in  my  sleep  that  it  wakened  the  whole  house,  and 
Justine  had  to  come  and  cuddle  me  all  night." 

Paul  was  startled  by  the  intuitive  depth  of  the 
blind  girl's  psychology. 

"That  was  infinity,"  he  said,  thrown  upon  medi- 
tation, "and  infinity  is  a  scientific  fact.  It  is  not 
a  mere  word;  it  is  a  logical  necessity.  Every 
limit  implies  a  beyond;  infinity  is  the  ultimate 
assertion  of  the  axiom.  One  might  say  that  infin- 
ity and  eternity  are  the  repeating  decimals  of 


302          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY 

thought.     What  does  the  dot  stand  for — Deity?" 

"There  goes  the  last  of  the  sun,"  observed 
Elsie,  "and  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  you 
mean."  She  folded  the  child  into  a  closer  em- 
brace and  got  up  to  go.  Paul  did  not  move  as 
she  passed  out  of  the  room;  he  was  lost  in  a 
trance-like  reverie.  Abruptly  there  sounded  a 
tapping  at  the  window — a  tapping  soft,  patient, 
determined.  The  young  man  glanced  up ;  a  face 
was  regarding  him  through  pane  and  curtain. 
It  was  that  of  Allan  Gary. 

Paul  went  out  hastily.  The  Scot  was  stand- 
ing on  the  low  step;  he  looked  up,  shamefaced; 
the  other  saw  that  there  were  threads  of  silver  in 
the  erstwhile  sable  beard. 

The  two  shook  hands. 

"Since  when,"  admonished  Paul,  rallyingly, 
"have  you  been  afraid  to  knock  at  our  door  ?" 

"Can  I  speak  wi'  ye  alone?"  asked  Allan  Gary, 
ignoring  the  kindly  quip. 

"Surely,"  said  Paul ;  "come  to  my  room." 

The  Scot  slipped  through  the  passage  and  en- 
tered the  familiar  place,  and,  as  its  rightful  ten- 
ant gained  admission,  shut  the  door. 

"I've  heard  she's  aye  here  now,"  he  explained, 
fumbling  with  his  hat,  "an'  'at  she's  rare  an'  fond 
o'  your  wife.  I  ken  ye're  mairriet,  ye  see." 

"Is  that  all  you  know,  Allan?"  responded  the 
other,  motioning  his  visitor  to  a  seat. 

"I  heard,"  said  the  Scot  modestly,  "  'at  ye  had 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH        303 

been  blessed  wi'  a  bairn,  an'  'at  ye  were  fine  and 
prood  o't." 

"And  is  that  the  full  extent  of  your  informa- 
tion?" pressed  Paul. 

"What  mair  should  I  ken?"  answered  the  Scot ; 
"a's  weel,  is't  no' — ye  dinna  mean ?" 

"Neither  Death  nor  disease  has  taken  toll  of 
us,"  Paul  reassured  him ;  "and  yet  all  is  not  at  its 
best  with  me.  But  about  yourself,  Allan;  I  am 
rejoiced  to  see  you  once  more;  is  all  well  with 
you?" 

"I  hae  found  means  to  live,"  vouchsafed  Allan 
Gary,  "tho'  I  hae  had  mair  need  o'  means  to  die. 
When  last  I  cam'  here,"  he  pursued  grimly,  "I 
tauld  ye  I  had  gi'en  a  promise  I  misdooted  the 
wisdom  o'." 

"I  remember,"  said  Paul. 

"'Twas  tae  sen',  yince  a  month,  a  flooer  tae 
her,"  continued  the  dwarf,  with  mordant  brevity ; 
"sae  undaeing  a'  that  I  socht  tae  dae  by  leavin' 
ye.  It  was  to  tell  her  I  wasna  deid;  she  asked 
me  for  some  sic  token." 

He  paused.  "I  hae  dune  as  I  promised,"  he 
intimated  hoarsely;  "an'  it  has  juist  been  living 
fra  yin  flooer  tae  the  next.  There's  no'  a  blossom 
wi'  a  bonny  breith  'at  disna  mind  me  o'  her  by  noo. 
I've  no'  been  oot  o'  the  neeborhood,"  he  added 
dejectedly;  "I  went  ower  the  river  tae  a  yaird 
there;  when  I  could,  I  cam'  up  here  for  news  o' 
the  Stuarts.  'At's  hoo  I  kent  o'  yer  mairriage." 

Again  the  splenetic  pause  that  told  of  the  diffi- 


304  'A   SON   OF   "AUSTERITY 

cully  with  which  self-revelation  became  possible. 

"But  I  maun  end  it,"  burst  out  Allan  Gary, 
with  volcanic  force ;  "I  maun  gang  ower  seas  and 
forget  her.  For  a  twal'month  noo  I  hae  walked 
wi'  death  and  hell ;  it  mak's  ma  heid  dirl  tae 
mind  o't.  We're  a'  things  o'  the  Present,  she 
wi'  her  great  blind  een  and  her  ferlie  face,  I  wi' 
my  ill-faurt  body  and  sair  heirt.  Some  day  a 
win'  will  blaw  baith  o'  us  intae  oor  graves  an' 
oor  Future  will  be  dust  an'  ashes.  Gin  I  micht 
yince  hae  had  her  i'  ma  airms !" 

Paul  said  nothing ;  there  was  nothing  to  say. 

"I  can  aye  close  ma  een,"  gasped  the  Scot, 
"an'  see  her  as  plain  's  I  can  see  yerself,  I  can 
hear  her  saft  lauchter,  'at  was  like  naething  but 
sound  wi'  a  perfume  o'  its  ain.  An'  while  I  look 
and  listen  I  can  feel  the  'oors  rinning  by — oot, 
oot,  intae  Eternity,  and  the  shadow  o'  Death 
creepin'  roond  tae  her  an'  me,  her  an'  me  'at  is 
sae  warm  and  leevin'.  They  that  love  are  aye 
feart  o'  Time  an'  Death,  even  when  they  lie  in 
each  ither's  airms  an'  hae  cheated  them  oot  o' 
half  the  victory.  Shall  they  no  curse  them  'at 
stand  alane  an'  dumb  while  Death  creeps  roond 
and  Time  flees  awa'  ?" 

The  younger  sighed  deeply,  wrung  by  his  own 
griefs. 

"Paul,"  said  the  dwarf,  with  shivering  sincer- 
ity ;  "there  is  ae  thing  'at  is  nearer  tae  a  man  than 
lo'e,  and  that  is  his  reason — I  canna  dee  i'  a  mad- 
hoose." 


LOVE,  TIME  AND  DEATH         305 

Paul  Gotch  started,  horrified  by  the  sibilant 
terror  of  the  speaker. 

"For  a  year  syne,"  added  the  Scot,  "I  hae 
lived,  waking  and  sleepin',  \vi'  her  in  my  thoughts. 
In  the  day  I  hae  gane  to  an'  fro,  thinking  o'  a' 
the  things  she  ever  said  tae  me — a'  her  words 
and  actions,  doun  tae  the  turn  o'  a  head  or  the 
pittin'  oot  o'  a  finger,  till  it  seemed  as  tho'  she 
was  aye  at  my  side.  At  nichts  we  hae  gane 
togither  through  fearsome  places  'at  froze  the 
bluid  i'  my  veins  and  hung  aboot  me  when  I 
wasna  sleeping.  I  hae  ta'en  the  same  roads  nicht 
after  nicht,  and  hae  seen  a'  the  deils  in  hell  or  felt 
them  withoot  seein'.  I  hae  lost  her  to  them,  an' 
won  her  back,  an'  lost  her  again.  I  hae  held  her 
i'  ma  airms  an'  found  her  a  corp — or  a  deil;  I 
hae  followed  her  up  mountains  as  high  as  Heeven 
and  found  the  tapmost  peak  as  empty  as  a  deid 
hand;  I  hae  gane  doun  intae  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  after  her  an'  heard  her  lauchin'  awa'  doun 
afore  me.  And  then  I  would  come  to  a  wall  o' 
rock  an'  fling  mysel'  against  it  an'  waken — alane 
an'  i'  the  dark." 

Neither  looked  at  the  other  as  the  dwarf  ended ; 
at  last  Allan  Gary  spoke. 

"I  maun  gang  awa'  ower-seas,"  he  said;  "ye'll 
wait  until  a  month  is  by  and  then  tell  her  that  I 
am  deid.  Tell  her  that  ye  knew  me,  and  that  I 
was  a  blastit  scoondrel  and  not  fit  to  come  near 
her." 

"She  would  not  believe  me,"  rejoined  Paul, 


306          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

simply;  "nor  would  I  do  you  so  great  a  wrong. 
Let  me  say  only  that  you  were  very  poor  and 
very  humble,  and  that  you  dared  not  hope  ever 
to  win  her." 

"Gin  ye  wull,"  muttered  Allan  Gary;  "aiblins 
it  will  be  kinder — to  her.  But  dinna  ye  mak' 
her  think  that  she  couldna  be  mairriet.  She 
glimpsed  it  yince  and  it  frichted  her.  Ye'll  ken 
to  ca'  me  the  'fairy  prince' — 'twas  a  name  she 
gied  me.  She  knows  nocht  o'  me  at  a' ;  I  juist 
spoke  tae  her  fra  yer  mither's  garden,  maistly 
aboot  sangs  an'  sic-like — at  first." 

"I  will  remember,"  promised  Paul. 

The  Scot  rose.  "I'll  be  ganging,"  he  said; 
thank  ye  for  yer  kindness."  He  held  out  his 
hand. 

"It's  the  last  time  you  an'  I  will  ever  see  yin 
anither,  Paul,"  he  murmured  brokenly,  seized  by 
a  sudden  comprehension. 

"Can  you  not  say  'on  earth'?"  asked  Paul, 
probingly. 

"No,"  flashed  the  Scot ;  "nor  any  man  'at  isna 
leein'  tae  himsel'.  Yince  I  hoped  for't  to  be 
true,  even  if  we  micht  hae  to  tak'  it  on  trust,  and 
could  again,  gin  I  thocht  'at  her  spirit  an'  mine 
wad  meet  an'  ken  yin  anither.  But  what  for 
should  I  flatter  mysel'  wi'  the  shadow  o'  my  ain 
pride?  Gin  there  be  a  God,  He  has  ither  ends 
tae  serve.  We  maun  juist  bide  the  issue.  Good- 
bye t'ye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Paul,  feeling  that  all  the  fac- 


LOVE,  TIME,  AND  DEATH        307 

ulties  of  material  perception  were  somewhat  out 
of  focus ;  "let  me  see  that  the  coast  is  clear." 

He  stepped  towards  the  door.  Before  he  could 
reach  it  it  opened,  and  Elsie  entered. 

"Mr.  Gotch,  your  mother  says,  will  you  come 
to  your  tea  ?" 

Paul  dropped  precipitately  into  a  seat. 

"Y-yes,"  he  mumbled,  as  though  engrossed; 
"in  a  moment." 

The  messenger  paused. 

"Is  some  one  else  here?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Paul,  catching  his  breath.  Allan 
Gary  stood  like  a  statue ;  only  his  eyes,  that  were 
fixed  on  Elsie,  burned  in  his  head  like  coals  of 
fire.  A  moment  the  blind  girl  hesitated,  as  if 
wrestling  with  an  instinct  that  puzzled  her  more 
practical  senses,  then  turned  and  went  away. 

Allan  Gary  forbade  sympathy  with  a  look,  and 
Paul  piloted  him  silently  to  the  gate  of  the  white 
cottage. 

The  Scot  lingered  an  instant,  some  words  leap- 
ing from  his  tongue  in  a  question  that  was  fierce 
with  pain. 

"Lad,  lad,"  he  whispered;  "what  for  should 
you  be  sae  happy  and  me  yin  o'  the  damned!" 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

SOME    GEESE    AND    A    BLACK    SWAN 

HERO  had  said  once  in  a  revealing  sentence 
that  if  she  had  to  be  exceptionally  miserable  she 
would  rather  it  were  in  London  than  anywhere 
else.  Her  foresight  was  vindicated  by  events; 
the  diverse  activities  of  the  metropolis  wrested  her 
keen  perceptions  from  the  study  of  her  own 
thoughts  and  of  the  Past.  Injudicious  as  the 
expenditure  was,  she  bought  for  the  child  "Babs" 
a  neat  carriage  of  the  type  known  as  a  mail-cart ; 
it  was  light,  well-balanced,  and  had  handles  not 
too  lengthy — she  could  manage  it  with  ease  upon 
an  ordinarily  crowded  pavement.  As  she  her- 
self was  obviously  no  nursemaid,  its  unconscious 
occupant  was  a  chaperon  of  the  first  order;  a 
fortunate  thing,  since  Phemie  seldom  lacked  an 
excuse  for  some  solitary  excursion  or  another, 
and  Hero  loved  the  open  air. 

By  what  right  she  had  so  completely  taken 
possession  of  Phemie  Maitland's  firstborn,  Hero 
had  scarcely  stayed  to  consider;  the  act  was  less 
her  own  than  she  knew.  There  is  a  vulgar 
shrewdness  in  some  types  of  the  indolently  selfish ; 
Phemie  had  contrived  to  disburden  herself  with 
308 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN   309 

consummate  art.  The  little  one  brightened 
swiftly  under  Hero's  cheerful  culture;  Phemie 
saw  that  woman  and  child  were  growing  towards 
the  affectionate;  an  idea  sprang  up  in  the  midst 
of  her  own  boredom  and  untimately  ripened  into 
speech. 

"Do  you  know,  Frances,  dear,"  she  remarked 
tentatively,  as  they  sat  at  breakfast — it  was  the 
beginning  of  October,  a  month  from  their  first 
meeting — "I'm  thinking  of  trying  to  get  some 
cash  together;  Charlie  isn't  a  millionaire,  and  I 
do  want  some  decent  things  for  this  wretched 
show.  I  wonder  if  you  would  mind  looking  after 
baby  in  the  evenings  if  I  went  back  again  for  a 
bit.  I'd  not  ask  you  anything  for  rent,  then,  and 
when  Charlie  puts  in  a  few  days  here  the  house- 
keeper will  let  you  have  her  spare  room;  she's 
not  a  bad  sort,  if  you  butter  her  a  bit." 

"In  the  evenings!"  repeated  Hero,  perplexed 
by  the  lateness  of  the  hours  to  be  devoted  to  Mrs. 
Maitland's  unspecified  avocation. 

"Oh !  did  I  never  tell  you  ?"  cried  Phemie,  with 
well-affected  astonishment;  "I  used  to  be  in  the 
balcony  bar  at  the  Golconda;  it  wasn't  bad  pay, 
and  besides,  I'd  broken  my  ankle  and  couldn't 
dance.  Well,  I  saw  one  of  the  girls  the  other 
day,  and  she  said  the  young  lady  that  had  my 
place  was  leaving.  Baby  is  so  good  with  you, 
dear,  and  we  can't  call  the  flat  furnished  with  only 
these  sticks  in  it." 

Hero  was  doubtful ;  Phemie  flounced. 


310          'A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"Of  course.  I  wouldn't  inconvenience  you  for 
worlds,"  she  went  on,  with  skilful  acerbity;  "but 
as  it  is,  half-a-sovereign  is  dirt  cheap,  you  know, 
dear,  and  there's  a  friend  of  mine  who  wants  to 
room  with  some  one  nice,  and  she  would  be  quite 
willing  to  pay  a  pound,  or  even  more.  Then  I 
could  have  some  one  to  look  after  Babs  and  do 
just  as  I  wanted;  I  can't  quite  settle  to  idleness 
all  at  once — I  do  get  so  awfully  dull." 

Hero  pondered  the  veiled  threat.  Phemie 
toasted  her  feet  at  the  gas-stove. 

Edith  interrupted  them,  a  figure  familiar  now 
to  her  mistresses,  but  otherwise  singular.  Her 
hands  and  face  were  amazingly  clean,  her  apron 
white,  her  boots  whole. 

"Will  you  want  any  more  'ot  water,  'm?"  she 
demanded,  directing  herself  to  a  sky-blue  dress- 
ing-gown and  certain  black  locks. 

"No,"  snapped  Phemie  sharply.  The  Cockney 
came  behind  Hero  and  launched  a  rapid  whisper. 

"She  gowin'  out?"  it  ran. 

Hero  hesitated. 

"Ow!  get  'er  orf,"  implored  Edith;  "you  was 
to  finish  //alice  to-dy." 

She  caught  up  the  bacon-dish  by  way  of  cloak 
to  this  appeal,  and  marched  off,  with  a  malignant 
frown  at  Phemie's  embryo  coiffure. 

"Well,  dear,"  inquired  Mrs.  Maitland  sweetly: 
"what  do  you  think?" 

"I  was   thinking,"   replied   Hero,   nervously, 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN   311 
'that  it  was  a  pity  you  should  go  back  to — to 


"Pickles!"  Phemie  adjured  her;  "a  bar's  no 
worse  than  a  shop  and  a  jolly  sight  better  than  the 
stage.  There's  safety  in  numbers.  Besides,  it's 
only  for  a  bit,  just  so  I  can  get  a  few  things  about 
me.  You  see  I've  set  my  mind  on  it,  and  it's  got 
to  come  off;  the  point  is,  what  are  you  going  to 
do?" 

Hero  flushed  with  anger.  Yet  under  that  dis- 
tasteful roof  were  the  only  friends  left  to  her — 
"Babs"  and  the  worshiping  Edith.  Even  now 
the  resentful  Cockney  was  awaiting  with  stern 
impatience  the  fate  of  Lewis  Carroll's  engrossing 
creation,  as  enshrined  in  a  sixpenny  edition. 
"Miss  Lancaster"  made  an  interim  decision. 

"It  would  be  extremely  awkward  for  me  to 
move  just  at  present,"  she  responded  frigidly;  "I 
will  do  my  best  with  the  child." 

Phemie  smiled  keenly. 

"That's  a  dear,  sensible  thing,"  she  said;  "I'll 
pop  down  and  see  the  manager.  Don't  be  cross 
with  me,  dear,"  she  added,  assuming  a  pose  that 
was  meant  for  petulant  grace ;  "I  really  can't  live 
without  something  to  break  the  monotony." 

She  arrayed  herself  with  her  accustomed  dis- 
tinction and  went  out  joyously. 

"Thank  Gawd,"  remarked  Edith  sincerely  as 
the  door  banged ;  "I've  got  baby's  bath  all  ready, 
miss,  and  when  Vs  'ad  it,  you  won't  mind  read- 
ing some  more  of  //alice,  will  you  ?" 


312          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"Babs"  was  bathed,  fed,  dandled,  and  set  to 
drowse ;  Edith  brought  the  thick  pamphlet,  in  its 
pale  green  cover,  and  Hero  took  up  the  thread 
of  Alice's  adventures.  There  were  only  a  few 
more  pages  to  read,  and  Hero  gave  them  with 
one  half  of  her  brain,  the  other  working  on  a 
group  of  allied  recollections.  Paul  had  intro- 
duced her  to  the  "Alice"  books  some  while  before 
Cyril  had  been  born ;  he  had  imagined  them  such 
pleasant  trifling  as  might  suit  her  state  of  mind. 
So  much  returned  with  that  reflection ! — the  per- 
plexing equations  of  imminent  maternity,  her 
husband's  tender  solicitude,  the  gentle  round  of 
the  quiet  days,  the  departure  of  summer,  the  dawn 
of  the  recurrent  spring,  the  eternal  mutability  of 
that  great  arch  of  sky  which  spanned  the  white 
cottage,  dwarfing  its  generous  fire-sides,  its 
sheltered  chambers,  its  weather-beaten  walls. 

Her  errant  fancy  sought  to  pierce  the  separat- 
ing Space  that  lay  between;  she  wondered  what 
Paul  was  doing  at  that  instant,  how  he  thought 
of  her — if — if  the  child  were  ^well.  Her  heart 
sank;  it  could  not,  it  could  not,  have  been  se- 
riously ill,  not  to  death — not  in  her  absence !  It 
was  so  sturdy,  so  alert,  so  lithe,  so  straight !  Yet 
children  did  die ;  little  clay-cold  bodies  clasped  to 
unavailing  bosoms,  wept  over  by  piteous  eyes. 
She  shuddered  at  her  own  grisly  imaginings.  One 
more  caught  her  on  the  rebound;  if  anything 
should  happen  to  the  child  it  would  kill  Paul; 
widowed,  bereaved,  he  would  fail  mysteriously. 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN    3 1 3 

She  was  conscious  that  in  the  man's  soul  there 
was  something  too  finely  touched  to  out-face 
such  grief  with  spleen  or  with  ambition. 

Comfort  in  extremity !  Paul  had  been  a  weak- 
ling, yet  his  mother  had  reared  him ;  she  was  an 
able  nurse  of  the  body,  if  not  of  the  mind ;  she 
would  nurture  the  child  infallibly.  Hero  felt  a 
spasm  of  gratitude;  it  brought  the  tears  to  her 
lashes. 

Reading  almost  unconsciously,  she  gained  the 
conclusion  of  the  book ;  Edith  sighed  and  rose. 

"Warn't  he  a  lovely  liar,"  was  all  she  said. 
Yet  sighed  profoundly,  doubtless  that  such  ex- 
quisite mendacity  should  have  an  end. 

Hero  began  to  entertain  her  charge — she  had 
bought  it  a  large  picture-book ;  already  it  had  fa- 
vorites among  the  highly-colored  pages.  So  the 
hours  passed  until  mid-day.  Phemie  omitting  to 
put  in  an  appearance,  Hero  lunched  without  her 
and  with  Edith,  to  that  personage's  huge  de- 
light. 

"I  orfn  wonder  if  I  am  not  dreaming  I  know 
you,  miss,"  she  confided;  "we  'ave  'ad  some  fine 
times  togever,  'aven't  we,  when  she's  been  art. 
When  you  come,  though,  I  thought  I  shouldn't 
like  you — I  did  and  no  error.  But  there ! — there 
was  a  girl  onct  I  was  fair  gone  on,  me  an'  'er 
was  pals  fust  dy  I  seen  'er.  But,  Lord  love  you, 
I  wouldn't  go  near  'er  now;  she  was  a  regular 
cat,  she  was,  and  as  sly  as  they  make  them. 
Likin's  a  queer  thing,  miss,  aint  it  ?" 


314          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Very,"  said  Hero,  inattentively.  Then  openly, 
"Edith,  dear,  would  you  think  me  very  mean  if 
I  went  out  this  afternoon  and  left  Babs  to  you? 
I  do  feel  so  desperate,  as  if  I  had  been  shut  up  too 
long." 

"You've  been  taking  it  too  quiet,  miss,"  vouch- 
safed the  astute  Cockney.  "Don't  you  worry 
about  biby,  I'll  manage  'im,  and  if  I  feel  lonely, 
I  can  read  Halice  to  myself,  now  you've  told  me 
what  all  the  big  words  mean.  You  'urry,  miss, 
there's  quite  a  bit  of  sun." 

Hero  did  hurry,  and  stepped  out  into  the  street 
at  the  termination  of  the  repetitionary  flights  with 
a  sense  of  relief.  She  had  indeed  been  taking 
things  too  quietly;  she  tingled  with  irrepressible 
uneasiness  which  is  often  the  prelude  to  hysteria. 

A  'bus  was  jingling  by— the  horses  noisily  flat- 
footed  upon  the  asphalt — she  mounted  it.  Its 
destination  was  Picadilly  Circus;  the  time,  near- 
ing  that  associated  with  matinees.  Passing  a 
theater,  Hero  saw  that  the  last  of  the  pit  queue 
was  just  filtering  in;  a  longing  took  her  to  see 
a  play  again.  At  the  head  of  the  Haymarket 
she  got  off  and  went  down  towards  the  historic 
theater.  The  bill  was  comedy ;  she  looked  at  the 
cast,  then  purchased  a  seat  and  settled  herself 
among  the  feminine  crowd. 

The  play  was  one  of  the  "society"  order;  that 
in  which  costly  gowns,  beautiful  women,  gallant 
gentlemen,  and  a  detailed  verisimilitude  of  the 
ultra-"smart,"  are  the  invariable,  and  optimism 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN    3 1 5 

and  cynicism  the  variable  constituents.  Hero 
watched  it  demurely;  she  was  attracted  by  its 
exotic  womanhood,  its  melancholy,  magnetic 
manhood,  its  miniature,  abortive  romance.  Just 
such  a  sybaritish  life  would  have  been  her  most 
congruous  arena.  To  have  been  born  into  it, 
emasculated  of  inconvenient  moralities  but  spared 
the  saving  grace  of  femininity,  would  have  met 
a  huge  percentage  of  her  psychological  needs. 
She  could  have  dwelt  so  pleasurably  in  that  deli- 
cate sphere,  to  which  belong  elusively-tinted  fur- 
belows, swansdown-throated  opera-cloaks,  dainty 
boots  and  gloves,  neat-handed  maids,  diamonds, 
superb  male  servants,  egg-shell  china,  and — the 
ideal  lover!  Behold  him! — not  young  enough 
to  be  awkward  or  ill-tempered,  not  old  enough  to 
be  irredeemably  cynical;  the  finest  wine  of  mas- 
culinity, of  a  comet  vintage,  matured  in  noble 
cellars,  worthy  the  most  acute  of  feminine  palates. 
A  quaver  in  his  voice  is  more  moving  than  many 
protestations,  his  courtesy  is  flawless,  his  very 
silence  eloquent,  his  magnanimity  heroic,  his  phil- 
osophy chivalrous,  his  victory  assured.  Hide 
yourselves  and  be  abashed,  ye  other  wooers;  art 
is  long  and  time  is  fleeting — this  kind  cometh  not 
but  by  scrip  and  rehearsal. 

Hero  enjoyed  her  matinee  with  calmness,  re- 
gaining the  now  lamp-lit  thoroughfares  with  an 
odd  start.  Almost  she  expected  to  find  herself 
in  those  of  a  city  two  hundred  miles  north  and 
west. 


316          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

There  was  a  notable  death  on  the  contents- 
sheets  of  the  evening  papers ;  she  got  a  copy  before 
entering  a  'bus.  A  tiny  electric  globe,  set  in  the 
midst  of  a  large  white  reflector,  illuminated  the 
interior  of  the  car.  She  read  the  paper  exhaus- 
tively; among  the  small  advertisements  one  ar- 
rested her  attention.  This  was  it — 

"H o.     Have  paid  further  amount  into  N.  &  S.  W. 

Bank — your  branch.  In  pity  to  my  self-respect 
make  use  of  this,  you  shall  not  be  molested  in  any 
way.  P." 

She  looked  at  the  lines  of  type.  An  old  and 
familiar  feeling  came  over  her — that  Paul  was 
greater  than  she,  that  she  could  not  escape  his 
love  or  his  prevision.  The  sentences  moved  her 
like  a  cry  in  the  dark.  She  got  out  of  the  'bus 
impulsively  and  hailed  another.  It  took  her  to 
Fleet  Street ;  she  had  recourse  to  the  directory  at 
a  postal  branch,  and  found  the  London  office  of  a 
Liverpool  daily.  For  this  she  made,  wrote  out 
an  advertisement  and  paid  for  it,  blushing  deeply 
as  the  attendant  completed  the  transaction.  She 
had  written  a  few  words  only — 

"P .    I  will  if  there  is  any  need.    Thank  you  and 

forgive  me.    H o." 

As  she  walked  back  to  Judd  Street  her  restless- 
ness fell  from  her.  But  she  could  not  quite  have 
told  which  of  the  day's  experiences  had  charmed 
it  away. 

Opening  the  door  of  the  flat  a  babel  of  talk 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SIVAN    3 1 7 

and  laughter  smote  her  ears.  She  stepped  into 
the  kitchen;  Edith  was  not  there.  Phemie's 
lazily  strident  voice  called  to  her  from  the  parlor. 

"That  you,  Frances  dear?      Come  in." 

Hero  obeyed,  to  find  herself  among  a  coterie 
of  "Phemies."  Short  or  tall,  brunette  or  blonde, 
they  all  smacked  of  the  type.  A  litter  of  tea- 
things  lay  about;  the  hot,  coarse  odor  of  rum 
penetrated  the  atmosphere;  it  was  years  since 
Hero  had  scented  the  remarkable  mixture.  She 
halted  momentarily.  In  that  moment  she  had 
taken  stock  of  the  rum-and-tea  drinkers;  also, 
they  had  taken  stock  of  her.  Their  high  spirits 
moderated,  dashed  by  an  antagonistic  element. 

Phemie  did  the  honors,  and  Hero  heard  such 
a  batch  of  pretentious  or  effusive  appellations  as 
tried  her  gravity.  She  sat  down,  planning  a 
strategic  retreat. 

"Are  you  a  mummer,  dear  ?"  asked  her  nearest 
neighbor,  a  lady  with  a  boy's  crisp  alto  and  golden 
locks.  Hero  was  horrified  at  the  apparent  cyni- 
cism of  the  question,  as  she  understood  it. 

"Connie  means  are  you  in  the  profession,"  in~ 
terpreted  Phemie.  "Bless  you,  no,  dear,  she's  just 
a  friend  of  mine,  and  very  shy,  so  you  mustn't 
bother  her." 

The  golden-locked  damsel  peeped  sharply  over 
her  shoulder,  then  shrugged  it,  and  passed  up  her 
cup  with  a  succinct  adjuration,  "Less  tea  this 
time,  darling."  Hero's  gaze  traveled  covertly 
from  countenance  to  countenance.  All  were 


318          rA   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

rouged  and  powdered,  and  impressed  the  beholder 
with  a  sense  of  something  lacking — though  that 
something  certainly  not  cosmetic — about  the  eyes. 
Their  owners  all  lounged  like  so  many  odalisques, 
and  all  seemed  to  have  a  penchant  for  garments 
that  clung  assertively. 

Her  survey  completed,  she  was  seized  with  sud- 
den alarm  and  caught  at  a  lack  of  "hot  water"  to 
obtain  a  temporary  respite.  The  deficiency  sup- 
plied, she  went  into  the  bedroom  to  take  off  her 
hat.  A  faint  glimmer  fell  from  the  gas-bracket ; 
by  it  she  saw  that  there  lay  upon  the  bed  a  dark 
figure,  slender  and  skirted,  to  the  dullest  vision  a 
woman  and  young. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  nervously. 

The  figure  sat  up. 

"Who  are  you?"  it  demanded.  The  accent 
was  pure,  the  intonation  cultured. 

"A — a  friend  of  Mrs.  Maitland's,"  explained 
Hero  politely ;  "I'm  sorry  if  I  woke  you ;  is  your 
head  bad?" 

"Horribly,"  she  was  told  with  a  fierce  energy ; 
"some  day  when  it  is  like  this  I  shall  cut  my  throat 
or  jump  out  of  the  window.  Turn  up  the  gas, 
there's  a  good  girl,  and  let  me  put  my  hair 
straight;  if  my  head  is  to  ache  it'll  ache,  and  if 
not,  not." 

The  other  did  as  she  was  bidden.  The  sight 
of  her  neighbor  startled  her.  On  the  dingy 
coverlet  lay  a  graceful  woman,  tall  and  undulant, 
with  a  dark  handsome  face.  Hero  recognized 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN   3 1 9 

that  it  was  not  indebted  for  its  dolorous  beauty 
to  the  arts  of  the  toilet-table. 

"Hullo,"  said  the  invalid ;  "I  couldn't  see  you 
properly  before.  Excuse  my  asking  you  to  turn 
the  gas  up  like  that — I  thought  you  were  one  of 
the  crowd." 

The  quick  discernment  interested  Hero ;  the  in- 
telligence of  the  proud  features  touched  her. 

"Please  don't  mention  it,"  she  replied  simply; 
"wouldn't  you  like  to  bathe  your  forehead  in  cold 
water?  I'll  bring  you  some.  And  I  can  give 
you  some  eau  de  Cologne,  if  you'd  care  for  it." 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  the  sufferer 
wanly ;  "I  believe  it  might  pick  me  up  a  bit." 

Hero  fetched  the  cool  fluid  in  a  bowl,  douched 
it  with  the  stimulating  liquid  sacred  to  headaches, 
and  supplied  a  handkerchief.  The  soft  white 
fingers  used  it  eagerly,  little  sighs  of  pleasure 
marking  its  application.  The  ministrant  lowered 
the  gas. 

"I  say,"  observed  the  thin  red  lips;  "who  are 
you  ?  I  haven't  seen  anything  like  you  for  ages. 
Don't  think  me  impertinent;  you  make  me  feel 
ten  years  younger ;  when  I  was  ten  years  younger 
I  was  ten  thousand  times  happier;  that's  why  I 
ask." 

"I'm  staying  with  Mrs.  Maitland,"  responded 
Hero ;  "I'm  a  stranger  in  London." 

The  unknown  stretched  out- an  arm  and  turned 
up  the  gas  again. 


320          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"You're  not  a  child  or  a  fool !"  she  allowed, 
after  a  scrutiny  that  lasted  some  seconds.  "How 
long  have  you  been  here?" 

"A  month  or  six  weeks,"  was  the  answer. 

"Pretty  clear  about  Phemie  by  now  ?"  came  the 
inquiry. 

Hero  colored  and  hesitated. 

"Quite  so,"  interpreted  the  thin  lips,  curving 
humorously ;  "when  are  you  going  to  get  out  of 
this?" 

"I — I  don't  know/'  stammered  Hero. 

"Owe  her  any  money?"  she  was  asked;  "don't 
look  at  me  like  that,  perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

"I  owe  Mrs.  Maitland  nothing,"  answered 
Hero  stiffly. 

"Hard  up  yourself  then,"  said  the  unknown; 
"come  and  see  me — no,  don't,  I'll  bring  you  the 
cash,  say  to  the  'Cabin'  in  Picadilly,  go  there  for 
some  tea." 

"I  have  plenty  of  money,  thank  you,"  got  out 
Hero,  bewildered;  "and  I  can  get  more  or  earn 
more  if  I  want  it." 

"Then  you  are  a  child,"  flashed  the  rapid  lips. 
"I  suppose  you  think  you  have  a  chance  of  seeing 
life  if  you  stop  here.  Oh,  you  fool,  you  little 
fool ! — for  you  are  that  as  well — do  you  want  to 
be  like  Phemie  and  her  crowd? — you've  not 
cleverness  or  'devil'  enough  for  anything  else. 
Look  at  me,  I've  got  my  foot  on  the  ladder,  and 
if  my  head  doesn't  kill  me  I  may  do  something. 
I  know — you  understand  me? — I  know,  and  it 


SOME  GEESE  AND  A  BLACK  SWAN     321 

isn't  worth  it.  I've  had  my  heart  broken  twice 
and  I've  made  the  pieces  and  my  good  looks  buy 
me  chances  when  my  wits  couldn't,  so  I'm  in  a 
fair  way  to  be  great  one  of  these  days.  I  was  a 
parson's  daughter,  you  little  fool,  and  I  wanted 
to  'pluck  a  topmost  rose  from  the  tree  of  life.' 
I  know  all  about  that  tree  now,  it  grows  with  its 
roots  in — pah!  Sometimes  I  enjoy  myself  even 
yet,  and  when  I've  climbed  the  ladder  and  can 
tear  the  hearts  out  of  a  houseful  of  fools  I  shall 
enjoy  myself  even  more.  What  does  that  prove  ? 
— that  I've  set  myself  on  fire  and  must  needs  burn 
out.  You — you  little  fool! — are  you  a  parson's 
daughter? — you  look  it." 

"I  am  not,"  said  Hero  candidly;  "and  I  don't 
wrant  in  the  least  to  be  an  actress," 

"Then  why  are  you  here?"  demanded  the  un- 
known— "here  among  this  dirt?  Yes,  it's  the 
truth,  Phemie  is  dirt,  and  so  is  the  crowd — some 
of  it's  decent  dirt,  but  you  needn't  dabble  in  it." 

The  sound  of  the  talking  had  awakened  "Babs" 
— there  was  a  faint  whimper  from  the  cot — Hero 
went  to  it  and  lifted  the  tiny  complainant. 

The  unknown  put  out  a  tremulous  palm. 

"Oh,"  she  said;  "a  baby— yours?" 

"Phemie's,"  answered  Hero,  shrinking;  "she — 
she  isn't  very  fond  of  it,  so  I — I  look  after  it, 
mostly.  I  have  wanted  to  go  away,  often,  but 
I'm  afraid  she'd  neglect  it." 

The  dark  eyes  fathomed  her  soul. 


522  A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

"Heigho!"  sighed  the  red  lips;  "you're  a  good 
child,  but  take  care  of  yourself,  all  the  same." 

The  speaker  dropped  a  kiss  on  the  tiny  placid 
brow.  A  hand  was  held  out  to  Hero — a  hand 
white,  firm,  delicate,  a  model  for  a  sculptor. 

"Bye-bye,"  she  was  told;  "I'm  glad  we  met. 
Don't  be  too  philanthropic.  I'm  going  to  take 
that  crowd  off  now." 

She  went  out,  shutting  the  door  after  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    INEFFABLE    PHENOMENON 

BY  the  end  of  a  sullen  September  the  house- 
hold at  the  white  cottage  was  thrown  into  un- 
wonted confusion.  Mrs.  Gotch  acquired  a  severe 
cold,  defied  it — without  success* — and  took  to  her 
bed,  struck  down  by  a  sharp  attack  of  pneumonia. 
Paul  stood  aghast  at  this  domestic  upheaval; 
Elsie,  on  the  spot  when  medical  report  was  made, 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"Send  for  Justine,"  was  her  advice;  "she  will 
nurse  your  mother  and  I  will  nurse  Baby.  Jus- 
tine is  a  wonderful  nurse !  I'd  have  been  dead  a 
dozen  times  over  but  for  her." 

On  which  wise  it  fell  out.  The  Frenchwoman 
arrived,  neat,  acute,  deliberate;  domesticity  re- 
stored itself,  and  the  sick-room  retired  to  the 
background  forthwith.  For  one  apprehensive 
week  Justine  waged  war  against  pulmonary  in- 
flammation, then  she  proceeded  to  conserve  her 
victory. 

As  the  strain  lessened,  Paul's  mind  was  gnawed 
increasingly  by  the  consciousness  of  some  duty 
unfulfilled.  Not  until  Mrs.  Gotch  was  up  and 

323 


324          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

about  again — the  same  austere  figure,  somewhat 
frail  and  tremulous  at  last — did  memory  conde- 
scend to  indict  him.  It  was  a  full  month  since 
Allan  Gary's  visit,  and  a  kind,  if  momentous,  lie 
was  still  untold. 

He  went  in  search  of  the  blind  girl ;  she  was 
chattering  to  the  child  Cyril  in  the  parlor.  Com- 
mon-sense abashed  him  suddenly;  the  abnormal 
amourette  seemed  more  like  a  fantastic  dream 
than  reality.  Elsie  occupied  a  tapestry-covered 
lounge — the  favorite  seat  of  Selina  Gotch.  Paul 
intimated  his  presence,  pulled  up  a  chair,  and 
leaned  upon  the  tapestry  arm. 

"Elsie,"  he  said,  after  a  troubled  pause,  "I 
wonder  if  you  could  guess  what  I  am  thinking 
about." 

"How  glad  you  are  your  mother's  better,"  an- 
swered the  blind  girl ;  "we're  all  too  glad  of  that 
to  think  about  anything  else,  aren't  we,  Baby 
dear?"  And  she  cuddled  the  tiny  creature  en- 
thusiastically. 

"No,"  said  Paul,  "not  that — exactly.  And  yet 
I  was  thinking  about  death,  the  saddest  death  of 
all  to  die,  far  from  those  who  love  us,  those  whom 
we  love." 

"Now  why,"  exclaimed  Elsie,  petulantly,  "you 
should  come  and  try  to  give  me  the  blues  when  I 
am  perfectly,  perfectly  happy,  I  do  not  know, 
Mr.  Gotch." 

"Let  me  tell  you  why  you  are  happy,"  ventured 
Paul ;  "you  are  happy  because  to-morrow,  or  per- 


THE  INEFFABLE  PHENOMENON  325 

haps  the  next  day,  you  are  expecting  something 
— a  very  little  something,  but  precious  to  you, 
because  it  is  to  come  from  some  one  you  care  for 
very,  very  dearly." 

The  blind  girl  started. 

"Mr.  Gotch !"  she  cried,  in  a  curious  species  of 
fright. 

"You  see  I  know  more  than  you  imagined, 
Elsie,"  pursued  Paul,  sadly;  "what  would  you 
do  if — if  what  you  expect  did  not  come?" 

Elsie  turned  on  him. 

"Quick !  quick !"  she  exclaimed — almost  harsh- 
ly; "you  said  you  had  been  thinking  of  death. 
Please  don't  go  hinting  and  hinting;  say  it  quick 
before  I  scream.  What  do  you  know  about  my 
flowers?" 

Paul  sighed  and  nerved  himself. 

"My  poor,  poor  child,"  he  whispered;  "be 
brave — they — will  not  come  any  more." 

The  blind  girl  moaned — a  quivering,  piteous 
expiration — and  rocked  herself  with  her  tiny  bur- 
den. 

"I  knew  him,  Elsie,"  said  Paul  slowly,  address- 
ing himself  to  the  remainder  of  his  odd  task, 
"and  knew  him  to  be,  in  spirit,  a  brave  and  noble 
gentleman.  You  may  always  be  proud  to  re- 
member that  you  have  been  loved  by  such  a  heart 
as  his.  His  life  was  a  grievous  tragedy;  he 
blamed  himself  for  having  spoken  to  you,  and 
there  are  those  who  would  decide  that  he  blamed 
himself  justly.  Yet  he  loved  you  so  greatly  that 


326          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

he  betrayed  to  you  the  dangerous  secret  of  his 
affection.  To  punish  himself  for  it  he  went 
away." 

"And  now,"  gasped  Elsie,  in  a  passion  of  un- 
wept tears — "now  he  is  dead?" 

Paul  had  to  clench  the  hitherto  implied  false- 
hood with  a  direct  affirmative.  It  hurt  him,  yet 
he  knew  it  both  wise  and  tender.  He  hastened 
to  fence  himself  against  other  necessities  of  the 
like  order. 

"You  won't  ask  me  anything  more,  my  poor 
Elsie,"  he  added,  "I  could  not  answer  you.  It  was 
his  wish  that  you  should  know  nothing  of  the 
tragedy  of  his  life,  of  his  name,  his  station,  and 
of  his  death.  Let  him  be  to  you  nothing  more 
than  you  yourself  called  him — a  'fairy  prince.' 
There  are  many  such,  Elsie,  strange,  bright,  beau- 
tiful spirits,  condemned  to  wear  the  rags  and 
fetters  of  an  unlovely  fate,  and  yet  to  think  and 
feel  above  it.  You  were  privileged  to  know  him 
as  even  I  could  not  do;  he  told  me  once  not  to 
mourn  for  him,  that  you  loved  him  and  had  told 
him  so;  that  he  had  had  his  hour.  He  meant 
that  through  you  he  had  tasted  the  only  great  hap- 
piness he  had  ever  known." 

Elsie  spread  out  her  hands  wildly,  leaving  the 
child  on  her  knees. 

"And  now  what,"  she  said,  a  shrill,  extrava- 
gant note  in  her  full  contralto;  "where  has  he 
gone? — has  he  gone  anywhere? — shall  I  go  to 
him? — oh,  Mr.  Gotch,"  she  wailed,  catching  the 


THE  INEFFABLE  PHENOMENON  327 

baby  to  her  breast  and  swaying  in  an  agony  of 
feeling;  "get  me  to  believe  something  or  I  shall 
go  mad  one  of  these  days." 

The  man's  heart  was  wrung. 

"Believe,"  he  replied,  groping  for  both 
thoughts  and  words,  "that  one  so  true,  so  loyal, 
so  generous,  so  strong,  can  not  die  away  like  the 
perfume  of  a  flower;  believe  that  he  could  not 
have  been,  unless  behind  all  the  towering  mystery 
of  things  there  were  Someone  to  whom  truth 
and  loyalty,  generosity  and  strength,  are  dear, 
and  therefore  to  be  guarded." 

"You  mean,"  said  Elsie  dryly,  "you  mean,  be- 
lieve in  God.  Did  he?" 

The  other's  heart  sank;  luckily  the  blind  girl 
dispensed  with  a  reply. 

"I  remember,"  she  whispered;  "the  Other 
Heaven,  the  place  where  the  best  God  we  can 
think  of  will  make  our  best  thoughts  come  true. 
He  said  that." 

"And  what  are  your  best  thoughts?"  prompted 
Paul  tactfully.  There  leaped  a  tragic  comfort 
into  the  sorowful  face. 

"To  be  with  him  always" — Elsie  did  not  mean 
Divinity — "and  have  him  tell  me  things  and  sing 
to  me." 

"Cherish  your  best  thoughts,"  said  Paul ;  "be- 
lieve in  the  best  God  you  can  imagine  and — be 
patient.  It  is  all  that  we  can  do." 

The  blind  girl  reflected ;  an  intensity  of  consid- 
eration shadowed  her  face. 

"Then  Dearie  is  right,"  she  burst  out. 


328          A   SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

Paul  bent  his  head  a  trifle  penitent,  extremely 
bewildered. 

"Yes,"  he  confessed  somberly;  "your  father  is 
right."  The  admission  added  to  his  perplexity. 

Elsie  was  no  less  perturbed. 

"Please  go  away  and  leave  me  to  think,"  she 
besought ;  "my  head's  all  in  a  whirl." 

Paul  Gotch  obeyed  her ;  as  he  went  he  saw  that 
the  blind  girl  took  out  a  little  pocket-handkerchief 
and  put  it  to  her  sightless  eyes.  Comprehension 
was  returning  upon  her — that  desolating  percep- 
tion which  floods  the  heart  with  bitterness  and 
overflows  upon  the  cheeks. 

He  passed  through  into  the  low  kitchen,  glanc- 
ing about  for  his  mother.  The  exit  to  the  yard 
was  open,  an  east  wind  blew  in  sharply.  On  the 
threshold  stood  Selina  Gotch,  tossing  sundry  yel- 
low grains  to  a  feathered  and  piping  throng. 
He  sprang  across,  drew  her  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"You  foolish,  foolish  person!"  he  told  her; 
"can't  you  find  a  warmer  way  of  committing  sui- 
cide?" 

"Gracious!"  said  his  mother,  half  offended; 
"mayn't  I  look  at  my  own  chickens?" 

"By  next  spring,  yes,"  retorted  Paul;  "I  shall 
have  to  have  you  chained  up  till  then." 

Elsie  came  to  the  kitchen  entrance. 

"Mrs.  Gotch,"  she  said,  "may  I  give  you  Baby? 
I  want  Mr.  Gotch  to  take  me  home,  if  he  will." 

"Certainly,"  assented  Selina,  dealing  with  her 


THE  INEFFABLE  PHENOMENON  329 

half  of  the  question,  "but  I  thought  Justine  and 
you  were  staying  till  the  week-end.'' 

"Oh,  I  am  coming  back  again,"  promised 
Elsie.  "I  only  want  to  talk  to  Dearie." 

Paul  got  his  hat  and  coat,  Elsie  prepared  her- 
self, and  side  by  side  they  walked  towards  St. 
Faith's. 

"Don't  come  in,"  requested  the  blind  girl,  paus- 
ing in  the  hall-way  of  the  vicarage ;  "I  need 
Dearie  all  to  myself  for  a  while.  One  of  the 
maids  will  bring  me  back." 

Thus  dismissed,  her  escort  returned  abstract- 
edly through  the  evening  shadows.  His  mother 
sat  by  the  work-room  fire  nursing  Cyril  and  read- 
ing the  paper;  she  folded  the  sheet  and  held  it 
out  to  him,  trepidation  in  her  worn  countenance. 
Paul  scanned  the  print  thus  exposed ;  a  paragraph 
in  the  agony-column  shouted  itself  at  him,  punc- 
tuated by  two  staring  capitals — P.  and  H.  He 
turned  sick  and  dropped  into  a  chair.  Selina 
gazed  at  him  doubtfully,  her  breathing  sounded 
curiously  heavy  and  pronounced  in  the  strained 
silence.  Her  son  strove  to  speak  and  could  not; 
the  message  set  him  on  the  rack — love,  anxiety, 
futile  imagination,  wrestled  within  him.  The 
issue  was  a  kind  of  contentment. 

"She  is  alive  and — and  well,"  he  stammered; 
"that  is  something." 

He  leaned  to  peer  at  the  child. 

"Baby !"  he  murmured ;  "Baby !" 


330          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

The  veined  lids  lifted  and  the  blue  orbs  met 
his. 

Her  son  put  a  question  to  Selina  Gotch. 

"Do  you  think/'  he  asked  with  a  painful  into- 
nation, "when  Cyril  grows  up,  he  will  have  any 
reason  to  blame  me  for  his  being?" 

Mrs.  Gotch  shook  her  head,  tearful  on  the  in- 
stant. 

"If  you  make  a  good  man  of  him,  certainly 
not,"  she  said;  "at  least  Hero  could  never  say 
that  she  didn't  respect  you/' 

Paul  winced. 

"Ought  a  child  to  be,  except  as  the  result  of 
love  ?"  he  demanded. 

"I  suppose  not,"  owned  his  mother;  "I  loved 
your  father,  if  it  comes  to  that — are  you  any  bet- 
ter off  for  it?  Love  is  only  a  sort  of  liking — it 
may  not  last ;  babies  as  a  rule  come  before  you  can 
find  out." 

"Not  always,"  said  Paul  with  swift  sympathy ; 
"I  didn't  for  instance.  Would  you  blot  me  out  if 
you  could  blot  out  the  last  thirty  years  by  doing 
so?" 

"I  mightn't  do  any  better  for  myself,"  parried 
Selina  Gotch  with  a  characteristically  evasive 
humor;  "it  was  pretty  bad  while  it  lasted,  but 
I've  had  most  of  my  own  way  since.  If  I'd  mar- 
ried a  fool  he  might  have  stuck  to  me  and  driven 
me  into  a  lunatic  asylum." 

Paul  twisted  her  worn  wedding-ring.     "You 


THE  INEFFABLE  PHENOMENON  331 

ought  to  have  a  big  contra  account  with  the  Here- 
after," he  remarked. 

"I'm  quite  satisfied  to  stop  where  I  am,"  said 
his  mother,  and  coughed  pathetically. 

They  whiled  away  the  evening  with  talk  un- 
til Justine  came  in  from  shopping  and  Elsie  from 
the  vicarage.  Over  supper  they  were  all  more  or 
less  excitable,  saving  Justine.  A  sort  of  enforced 
wit  seasoned  the  meal.  Afterwards  Paul  sat  over 
the  fire  in  his  room,  brooding  upon  Hero's  adver- 
tisement. He  had  cut  it  out  and  pasted  it  on  a 
card.  When  he  laid  it  in  his  pocket-book  and 
returned  the  latter  to  its  place  a  soft  glow  seemed 
to  radiate  from  it,  disturbing  his  heart. 

In  the  first  of  the  slow  November  dawn  Justine 
knocked  at  his  chamber-door,  pushed  it  ajar,  and 
wakened  him  with  a  sibilant  calling. 

"Go  for  the  doctor,  quick!"  she  bade  him; 
"your  mothaire  is  strangely  ill." 

The  young  man  hurried  into  some  garments 
and  ran,  as  for  his  life.  Justine  the  sane,  Justine 
the  self-possessed,  could  be  no  alarmist. 

Dragged  from  his  warm  bed,  the  physician  set 
out ;  spare,  cool,  fraternal,  tolerant  of  Paul's  con- 
suming haste. 

Justine  met  them  upon  the  one  cramped  land- 
ing and  caught  at  Paul. 

"Be  ver'  quiet,"  she  said,  "but  come — quickly !" 

She  drew  him  into  the  room;  Selina — grown 
suddenly  and  amazingly  fragile, — was  propped 
up  by  pillows. 


332          A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"Go  to  her,"  shaped  the  Frenchwoman  in  his 
ear.  Paul  went  round,  dazed  by  an  intuition  of 
the  titanically  critical.  He  stooped  over  his 
mother;  she  slipped — with  a  determined  volition 
— into  his  embrace. 

"I'm  glad  you've  got  back,"  she  said;  "I — I 
was  waiting  for  you." 

Her  head  fell  heavily  upon  his  shoulder,  a  bro- 
ken murmur  crept  through  her  lips. 

In  the  corner  by  the  door  Justine  was  whisper- 
ing to  the  doctor. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

OUT    OF    THE    BLUE 

WITH  the  return  of  Phemie  to  the  balcony  bar 
at  the  Golconda  began  for  Hero  a  period  of  men- 
tal incubation.  She  paid  the  minimum  subscrip- 
tion at  Mudie's — clean  volumes  are  not  a  specialty 
of  less  august  lending  libraries — and  resumed  her 
reading.  Between  whiles  she  cultivated  the  child 
"Babs" ;  by  now  it  could  distort  the  more  common 
household  words,  and  toddle  unsteadily  from  side 
to  side  of  the  parlor.  Shone  upon  by  Hero's  war- 
mer spirit  it  had  blossomed  into  a  cheery  alert- 
ness; the  stolidity  faded  from  its  tiny  visage,  it 
would  frisk  jollily  in  her  arms ;  often  she  went  to 
sleep  aching  from  its  excess  of  life  and  motion. 

Edith  bloomed  with  no  less  alacrity.  She  did 
her  wisp  of  tortured  hair  in  imitation  of  Hero's 
loose  tresses,  she  lengthened  her  scant  skirts,  af- 
fected a  maturer  mold,  and  even  wore  gloves, 
dark  and  badly-fitting. 

For   this   trio   the   flat   itself  came  to  exist; 

Phemie  lay  late,  breakfasted  and  lunched  in  one, 

drifted  out  about  four  or  five,  and  was  not  seen 

again  until  the  earlier  of  the  small  hours.     At 

333 


334          rA   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

night  she  was  cross,  in  the  morning  drowsy: 
once  or  twice  she  roused  to  her  old  indolent,  good- 
humored  self,  on  the  occasion  of  such  tea-parties 
as  that  which,  for  Hero,  had  synchronized  with 
that  "sicht  of  guid  advice"  from  the  brilliant  and 
cynical  unknown. 

Hero  had  asked  about  this  same  piquing  per- 
son, for  she  did  not  come  again.  Phemie  had 
sniffed. 

"She's  getting  to  think  a  bit  too  much  of  her- 
self," snapped  the  ingenuous  Mrs.  Maitland;  "I 
remember  her  when  she  was  glad  enough  to  go  on 
in  any  sort  of  a  crowd.  Of  couse  she  has  a  good 
figure,  and  they  began  to  dress  her  after  a  while. 
Then  she  got  a  few  lines  to  speak,  and  to  under- 
study a  small  part.  She  can't  say  she  isn't  lucky ; 
her  principal  got  typhoid,  and  Sallie  played  the 
part  for  the  rest  of  the  run.  It  suited  her  better 
than  the  other  girl,  that  was  all  there  was  in  it, 
but  it  got  her  on  a  lot.  Sallie' s  no  fool  either, 
she  knows  which  side  her  bread's  buttered  on." 

"Sallie"  was  more  often  in  Hero's  mind  than 
Phemie  was  given  occasion  to  know.  The  clear 
young  voice,  so  crisp,  so  disciplined,  so  thrilling, 
echoed  in  her  memory  without  the  most  fractional 
diminution  from  the  original;  the  dark  eyes, 
humorous,  comprehensive,  discomfiting,  gleamed 
at  her  out  of  recollection;  the  perfectly-balanced 
figure,  at  once  ample  and  slender,  the  air  of 
fathomless  experience,  conquered  and  ordered  by 
cynicism,  the  triumphant  womanhood  over  all, 


OUT  OF  THE  BLUE 

\J  w  *J 

fascinated  yet  frightened  Hero.  It  was  the  em- 
bodiment of  her  secret  rapport  with  Romance,  at 
once  its  adequate,  its  generous  exposition,  and,  its 
defeat.  She  felt  as  a  buttoned  foil  might  feel, 
flung  down  by  a  Toledo  rapier  with  twenty  mur- 
ders on  its  blue  blade,  to  ponder  the  ultimate  sig- 
nificance of  carte  and  tierce. 

Hero  plumbed  the  well  of  her  own  ardent  sym- 
pathy with  life,  and  found,  as  Shakespeare  found, 
no  bottom.  "I  think,"  said  the  Latin,  "that 
nothing  human  can  prove  alien  to  me ;"  yet  forgot, 
as  poets  will,  to  define  his  terms.  What  is  hu- 
manity and  what  alienation?  Mathew  Arnold 
came  near  solving  a  problem  of  the  same  sort 
with  his  "literature  is  a  criticism  of  life."  But  what 
is  criticism — inane,  pathetic  protest?  Moved  by 
the  nervous  humanity  of  Sallie's  adumbrated 
tragedy,  Hero  still  resented  it — pace  the  Roman, 
nor,  with  the  later  thinker,  did  she  stop  short  at 
dissent.  There  should  be  a  grammar  of  dissent ; 
she  fumbled  for  it. 

Power  in  one  of  its  aspects  is  resistance,  but 
mere  resistance,  when  it  is  that  of  mental  power, 
is  somewhat  too  instinctive,  somewhat  too  lack- 
ing in  intelligent  self-consciousness.  Hero,  to 
all  external  influence,  was,  as  has  been  seen, 
strongly,  if  passively  resistent ;  slowly  she  began 
to  perceive  the  necessity  of  determinate  action 
upon  the  forces  without  her.  Sallie  became  the 
abiding  desideration  of  an  articulate  non-con- 


336          A   SON   OF  'AUSTERITY, 

formity.  In  other  words,  life  became  assertively 
inadequate. 

Central  London — huge,  careless,  wasteful, 
pleasure-seeking — was  a  Brobdignagian  ignis 
fatnns  floating  upon  a  marsh  of  wide-spread  De- 
privation. Once  Hero  got  the  fen-fire  glow  out 
of  focus  and  the  vast  bog  in,  she  dropped  half  her 
egotism  at  the  first  start  of  her  surprise.  It  was 
on  a  raw  and  gusty  day — such  as  freezes  fingers 
in  seal  muffs  and  feet  in  carriage-wraps — that 
she  found  an  ancient  grandsire  at  a  corner  in 
Oxford  Street  turning  a  marvelous  combined 
windmill  and  water-wheel  (with  a  Swiss  chalet 
over  all)  by  one  wooden  crank,  clutched  in  bent 
and  tremulous  digits.  She  gave  him  some  cop- 
pers and  hurried  on.  In  Russell  Square  there 
sat  a  neat  old  dame,  black-gowned,  white- 
aproned,  guarding  a  basket  of  trumpery  trifles, 
pins  and  spools  and  collar-studs.  Hero  stopped, 
clutched  by  pity,  and  endowed  the  stiff  palm  with 
all  her  remaining  bronze.  A  dozen  yards  away, 
it  came  to  her  that  both  the  chill  recipients  of  her 
aid  had  been  stricken  in  years. 

The  old! — it  was  the  old  that  suffered,  the 
world  was  to  the  young.  "Gather  ye  roses  while 
ye  may" — that  was  Romance.  How  bitterly  the 
east  wind  blew — with  what  despairing  feet  the 
day  went  by  toward  its  desolate  and  frozen  dusk ! 
The  old! — gone  for  them  the  thrill  of  ecstasy, 
when  the  heart  beat,  so  blindly,  so  foolishly,  yet 
so  gallantly ;  when  the  pulsing  tides  of  the  world's 


OUT  OF  THE  BLUE  337 

eternal  renaissance  bore  their  red  drops  with  it, 
and  Being  rounded  itself  into  Potentiality,  or 
drew  to  the  renewing  pleasures  of  Appetite.  The 
old ! — how  are  their  friends  failed,  their  kin  de- 
parted; how  is  the  music  taken  from  their  tardy- 
hours,  the  pang  of  power  from  their  shrunken 
limbs.  Surely  to  them  should  be  the  murmuring 
fireside,  the  gentle  word,  the  pervading  tenderness. 
Alas !  the  world  is  to  the  young,  and  there  are  so 
many,  many  young.  There  is  not  enough  of  the 
world  to  go  round. 

Life's  silver  buckler  swung  to  an  angle  with 
Hero's  vision ;  she  saw  the  fleshless  hand  and  arm 
that  held  it.  Oh,  that  refulgent  disc! — whereon 
are  the  labors  of  Hercules,  and  those  serried  hosts 
with  spears  like  blown  grass,  and  Vulcan's  stithy, 
and  that  supple,  gleaming  Venus — what  yellow 
bones  there  are  behind  that  splendid  targe,  and 
how  they  flash  it  in  the  sunlight  and  quiver  with 
skeleton  glee  to  find  it  so  worshiped ! 

Upon  the  same  evening,  as  Hero  waited  to  pay 
a  bill  at  a  shadowy  little  shop,  hard  by  the  flat, 
a  tall  fellow  with  a  straggling  gray  beard,  bent 
shoulders  and  a  tray  of  leaden  Maxim  models — 
such  as  Hero  had  seen  on  sale  at  the  curb — was 
provisioning  himself.  A  pennyworth  of  tea,  a 
pennyworth  of  cheese,  a  rasher  of  bacon,  a  penny- 
worth of  sugar ;  he  took  the  tiny  packages,  stowed 
them  away,  and  shuffled  out  of  the  shop.  The 
assistant  told  her  affably  that  it  was  a  regular 
order;  the  gutter  merchant  had  patronized  him 


33§          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

for  more  than  a  year.  That  night  Hero  dreamed 
she  had  bought  such  pennyworths  of  groceries  at 
the  same  little  store,  and  hurrying  home  with  an 
overpowering  hunger,  opened  the  parcels,  to  find 
them — empty. 

When  she  went  out  after  these  trifling  expe- 
riences she  found  herself  brooding  unconsciously 
upon  the  squalid  aspects  of  the  metropolis. 
Without  reason,  London  seemed  to  have  grown 
suddenly  unprosperous.  Faces  evil,  faces  petty, 
faces  gross,  faces  thwarted,  faces  insipid,  faces 
cold,  floated  by  her  this  way  and  that ;  faces  pure 
or  generous,  or  sunny,  showed  like  stars  on  a 
cloudy  night.  Her  mind  toiled  up  and  down  the 
long  columns  of  the  social  sum,  but  the  space 
for  the  answer  remained  blank. 

The  child  "Babs"  constituted  itself  part  of  her 
mental  anxiety.  With  Phemie  for  its  guardian, 
what  would  it  grow  up  to  be  ?  Not  having  itself 
chosen  such  dubitable  custody,  was  it  to  be  held 
responsible  for  a  future  which  would  almost  inev- 
itably be  dictated  by  its  birth  and  early  years? 
As  these  perplexities  crowded  upon  her  she  found 
herself  remembering,  half-consciously,  the  light 
which  Paul's  lingering,  suggestive  sentences  had 
been  wont  to  cast  for  her  into  dark  places.  At 
such  times,  and  notably  when  reflecting  upon  the 
possible  fate  of  Phemie  Maitland's  firstborn,  she 
was  inexpressibly  glad  that  the  youthful  Cyril 
might  look  to  Paul  Gotch  for  nurture  and  up- 
bringing. She  caught  herself  dreaming  upon 


OUT  OF  THE  BLUE  359 

her  own  child's  possibilities;  her  husband  was 
ambitious,  flesh  of  her  flesh  might  yet  draw  the 
world's  eye.  After  all,  maternity  is  maternity, 
and  no  other. 

It  was  later  than  this  that — taking  the  silver 
cup  from  her  bag — she  scraped  the  engraving  into 
illegibility,  stamped  the  metal  flat,  and,  making  a 
parcel  of  it,  dropped  it  over  the  Embankment  one 
dark  evening,  at  the  end  of  a  journey  taken  for 
that  purpose. 

So  she  forged  bravely  through  a  vast  sea  of 
troublous  thought.  Weeks  came  and  went  and  saw 
her  wrestling  with  its  indeterminate  currents. 
Her  soul  struggled  to  the  limits  of  the  feminine, 
seeking  guidance  within  itself  and  finding  none. 
An  awful  loneliness  fell  upon  her,  sometimes  she 
sat  and  wept. 

One  afternoon,  being  out  with  "Babs"  and  the 
mail-cart,  she  went  into  Regent  Street  to  look  at 
the  photographs  in  a  certain  window.  They  vary 
constantly,  reflecting  the  popular  interests  of  the 
moment.  As  she  stood  to  survey  them  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  eddying  little  crowd,  some  one 
spoke  to  her.  The  voice  was  that  of  Mrs.  Mait- 
land's  quondam  visitor,  the  rising  "Sallie." 

"Ah!  how  are  you?"  she  asked  quizzically; 
"got  rid  of  Phemie  yet,  or  are  you  still  in  the  phil- 
anthropic mood  ?" 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,"  Hero  told  her,  un- 
feignedly  pleased  by  the  meeting:  "yes,  I  am 
still  at  the  flat." 


340          A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

"Then  this  is  the  kiddy  I  saw  up  yonder,"  re- 
marked Sallie,  touching  its  observant  brown  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Hero,  watching  her. 

"Phemie's  mash  not  turned  up  again,  I  sup- 
pose?" continued  the  cynical  red  lips. 

Hero's  gaze  concentrated  sharply;  the  form  of 
the  inquiry  had  arrested  her. 

"Goes  to  sea,  doesn't  he?"  pursued  Sallie,  lean- 
ing on  her  umbrella;  "think  she'll  ever  see  him 
again,  eh?" 

"I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  stammered  the  other. 

Sallie  laughed. 

"Why  won't  you  go  back  to  the  parsonage,  you 
darling?"  she  said;  "it  would  be  ever  so  much 
better  for  you,  really." 

Hero's  palpable  astonishment  tickled  the  author 
of  this  recommendation ;  she  laughed  again. 

"Phemie  told  us  you  were  'lost  in  London,' ' 
she  explained ;  "you  didn't  think  she  could  keep  a 
secret,  did  you  ?  Now  do  go  back,  there's  a  sen- 
sible girl;  leave  Phemie  to  manage  her  own  be- 
longings and  run  home  as  quickly  as  ever  you 
can.  You'll  be  just  in  time  to  chop  suet  and 
practice  'Mortals  Awake.' ' 

Her  merriment  was  full,  arch,  and  discomfit- 
ing. 

"Don't  be  angry  with  me,  there's  a  dear,"  she 
said :  "I'd  give  the  world  to  go  back  to  my  par- 
sonage— it  was  a  Devonshire  rectory;  that's  why 
June  always  gives  me  the  heart-ache.  But  I've 


made  my  bed  and  must  lie  on  it — you — you've 
only  borrowed  Phemie's." 

She  laughed  once  more,  gave  Hero  a  little  tap 
with  her  gloved  fingers,  and  turned  away.  A 
fewr  yards  off  she  looked  round  to  nod  insistently. 

Hero  made  for  the  flat  by  Oxford  Street  and 
Southampton  Row,  pondering  as  she  went.  She 
had  been  nettled  by  the  laughter  which  still 
rang  in  her  ears;  she  was  in  the  vein  to  sneer  at 
it,  yet  did  not.  There  had  been  in  Sallie's  mirth 
a  maturity  of  knowledge  which  cowed  her  resent- 
ment. Also,  some  words  of  that  highly-intelli- 
gent person — they  were  other  than  those  relating 
to  parsonages — had  prompted  thought. 

She  left  the  mail-cart  with  the  housekeeper, 
carried  the  child  up-stairs,  let  herself  in  with  her 
latch-key,  and  went  into  the  parlor — "Babs"  on 
one  flexed  arm.  From  a  seat  at  the  small  table 
Phemie  greeted  her  entrance. 

"Oh,"  said  that  person,  indistinctly — for  her 
mouth,  since  it  must  be  owned,  was  full  of  corned 
beef,  a  plateful  of  which,  with  other  concomi- 
tants of  a  meal,  stood  before  her — "this  is  Miss 
Lancaster,  Charlie.  Frances,  this  is  Mr.  Mait- 
land." 

Hero  stood  up  to  a  stroke  of  Fate's  hammer 
that  well-nigh  brained  her. 

Just  lifting  his  blond  mustache  from  the  depths 
of  a  coffee-cup,  a  cigarette  in  the  fingers  of  one 
hand,  a  tolerant  smile  hovering  about  lips  and 
mouth,  was — Cyril  Jephson ! 


342          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

Hero  Gotch  swayed  to  the  blow.  The  child, 
shrinking  from  a  stranger,  put  its  tiny  palm 
against  Hero's  cheek ;  it  stung  her  like  a  hot  iron. 
She  could  have  screamed — long,  wildly,  insen- 
sately,  as  viragoes  do. 

Then  her  native  strength  summoned  itself  in  a 
terrified  rally.  She  moved  across  the  room,  set 
the  child  in  Phemie's  arms,  and  with  that  was 
gone,  like  a  frightened  deer,  through  door  and 
ante-chamber,  from  landing  to  landing,  flight  by 
flight,  into  the  wide  street  and  the  fresh  air. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

THE    FLOWERING    OF    DESPAIR 

SAUL  and  Jonathan,  sang  the  former's  chival- 
ric  antagonist,  were  lovely  and  pleasant  in  their 
lives,  and  in  their  deaths  they  were  not  divided. 
A  tragic  inversion  of  the  famous  elegy  spoke  in 
the  return  of  that  which  was  once  Selina  Gotch 
t«-»  its  native  dust.  Paul  dared  not  bury  her  in 
his  father's  grave. 

Thereafter  certain  days  crawled  by;  the  man's 
senses  rallied  from  the  shock  of  that  swift  de- 
cease, sown  at  noon  by  the  east  wind  in  an  en- 
feebled frame,  and  harvested  in  collapse  before 
the  dawn.  Justine  lingered  at  the  white  cottage, 
too  pitiful  to  thrust  upon  the  dazed  mind  of  its 
master  such  necessity  for  ordered  action  as  should 
make  patent  his  desolate  future. 

Elsie  comforted  him  greatly — Elsie  and  the 
child  Cyril.  The  blind  girl  brought  across  the 
clayfield  a  thick  Braile  volume  and  hovered  upon 
its  pages.  They  were  those  of  the  Fourth  Gos- 
pel; Elsie  had  surrendered  to  the  spiritual — at 
discretion. 

She  was  a  quick  reader,  at  once  intelligent  and 
343 


344  A   SON   OF   AUSTERITY 

poetic ;  as  literature,  ensanguined  by  the  vitalities 
of  thought,  the  contents  of  the  book  were  new  to 
her.  She  passioned  over  it  as  she  had  been  used 
to  do  over  her  own  romances,  collating  its  con- 
tents with  the  mystery  that  saddened  them  both 
— her  pathetic  absorption  reproached  Paul  for 
his  share  in  her  beguilement. 

"Thomas    saith    unto    him:     Lord,    we    know    not 
whither  thou  goest," 

read  Elsie,  hanging  over  the  thick  leaves, 

"and  how  can  we  know  the  way? 

Jesus  saith  unto  him :  I  am  the  way,  the  truth  and 
the  life;  no  man  cometh  unto  the  Father  but  by  me. 

'  If  ye  had  known  me  ye  should  have  known  my 
Father  also,  and  from  henceforth  ye  know  him  and 
have  seen  mm. 

Philip  saith  unto  him:  Lord,  show  us  the  Father 
and  it  sufficeth  us. 

Jesus  saith  unto  him:  Have  I  been  so  long  time 
with  you  and  ye  have  not  known  me,  Philip?  He  that 
hath  seen  me  hath  seen  the  Father." 

The  blind  girl  stopped,  resting  her  chin  in  the 
palm  of  her  hand.  "It's  a  good  thing  they  asked 
Him  those  questions  straight  out,"  she  observed ; 
"don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Gotch?" 

Paul  assented,  struck  by  the  quaint  individu- 
ality of  the  remark. 

"Now  why,"  asked  Elsie,  reflectively;  "why  do 
I  feel  as  if  I  couldn't  help  believing  that,  why 
does  it  make  me  feel  excited  and — oh,  you  know 
how?" 


THE  FLOWERING  OF  DESPAIR     345 

Some  words  of  another  Evangelist  came  back 
to  the  listener — "Did  not  our  hearts  burn  within 
us  while  he  talked  \vith  us  by  the  way?"  Might 
not  all  our  life,  he  reflected,  be  but  as  a  journey 
to  Emmaus,  with  know-ledge  at  the  end  to  justify 
that  fever  of  the  heart,  that  "transcendent  passion 
of  affectionate  hope." 

"I  dare  say,"  vouchsafed  the  blind  girl,  closing 
the  Gospel,  "that  if  I'd  the  courage  of  a  mouse 
I'd  believe  and  chance  it." 

She  rose,  dismissing  the  subject.  Margaret 
came  in  to  light  the  lamps;  Justine  followed, 
dressed  to  go  out. 

"Not  ready,  Elsie?"  she  said,  promptingly. 

"I  was  forgetting,"  apologized  Elsie,  making 
to  repair  the  omission;  "it's  just  Dearie's  birth- 
day, you  know,  Mr.  Gotch,  and  Justine  and  I 
are  going  to  have  supper  with  him — it's  Dearieis 
nicest  meal,  he  says.  Will  you  come  ? — Margaret 
can  look  after  Baby." 

Paul  glanced  at  the  table,  eloquent  of  neglect. 

"I  musn't,"  he  said ;  "if  I  am  left  alone  I  shall 
write — or  try  to.  Give  your  father  my  best 
wishes,  he  can  believe  that  he  has  them ;  my  only 
friends  are  those  that  live  under  the  shadow  of 
St.  Faith's." 

The  blind  girl  cloaked  and  hooded  herself. 

"There  is  so  much  of  fog  outside!"  said  the 
Frenchwoman,  securing  Elsie's  furred  wrap;  "au 
rcvoir,  Mr.  Gotch — come,  Elsie,  my  child." 

She  caught  up  her  own  silk  skirts  in  the  inimit- 


346          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

able  Gallic  fashion  and  went  off,  tossing  the  end 
of  a  fleecy  shawl  about  her  handsome  shoulders. 

Paul  Gotch  saw  them  out  and  regained  his  own 
comfortable  apartment,  setting  the  portiere  to 
shield  the  sleeping  Cyril  from  any  insistent 
draught.  He  walked  up  and  down;  periodically 
his  sentry-go  brought  him  over  against  the 
screened  corner  where  stood  the  child's  cot,  and, 
hard  by,  Hero's  rocking-chair,  her  table,  lamp, 
and  wicker  work-basket.  Night  after  night  since 
she  had  left  him,  the  same  soft  glow  had  warmed 
it,  but  no  one  had  occupied  the  bent-wood  lounge 
in  which  she  had  been  used  to  read.  A  few 
books,  undisturbed,  lay,  as  they  had  been  left  by 
her,  in  the  rack  under  the  small  table.  The  fire 
danced  in  the  hobbed  grate,  the  gas-flames  flick- 
ered occasionally  on  their  brackets,  the  house  was 
very  quiet. 

He  tried  to  write  and  failed.  Once  he  stepped 
to  the  window  and  looked  out.  The  sea  of  mist, 
rendered  impenetrable  by  the  gloom  of  the  clay- 
field,  lay  blankly  about  the  deep  bay. 

A  figure  loomed  suddenly  through  the  fog, 
into  the  shining  pane  of  the  lifted  blind,  and 
knocked  at  the  door ;  the  imperative  summons  of 
the  belated  post.  Margaret  answered  it,  bring- 
ing Paul  a  handful  of  business  correspondence, 
one  with  a  moot  address.  He  had  to  open  and 
read  this  latter. 

The  postman  paused  on  the  threshold  of  the 
little  hall;  as  he  waited  there  a  feminine  figure 


347 

came  behind  him,  thanked  him  as  he  moved  aside, 
and  passed  into  the  cottage  with  the  quick  self- 
possession  of  an  obvious  denizen. 

The  dim  illumination  of  the  deserted  parlor 
swallowed  up  the  new-comer;  Margaret  brought 
out  the  disowned  communication,  the  heavy  front 
door  of  the  cottage  shot  its  noisy  latch,  the  maid's 
retreating  footsteps  faded  into  the  kitchen.  Hero 
Gotch  sank  into  a  seat  by  the  smoldering  emb- 
ers and  listened  to  the  thudding  of  her  own  heart. 

She  was  vaguely  conscious  that  there  had  been 
a  lapse  of  time  between  her  headlong  retreat  from 
the  flat  in  Judd  Street  and  her  arrival  in  the 
dusky  yet  familiar  place  which  now  shielded  her. 
It  was  good  to  have  escaped  the  vaporous  shroud 
through  which  her  last  stage  had  lain.  The 
express  had  plunged  into  it  at  the  Mersey  cross- 
ing, where  the  thunder  of  the  hurtling  car- 
riages betwixt  the  throbbing  lattices  high  above 
the  stealing  shallows,  warns  the  native  of  the 
short  run  home  down  the  farther  bank.  It  had 
not  been  short  to  Hero  Gotch ;  they  had  crawled 
in  amid  a  fusilade  of  fog-signals,  with  dreadful 
gaps  of  passivity  in  gloomy  cuttings  and  under 
bridges.  From  the  station  she  had  been  borne 
with  extravagant  caution  in  a  damp  and  fretful 
cab.  At  the  gate  by  St.  Faith's  she  had  plunged 
alone  into  the  dank,  interminable  sea  of  cloud ;  it 
was  as  if  Nature,  sick  to  death,  had  donned  her 
own  grave-clothes. 

And  now  Hero  Gotch  was  come  home  again. 


348          A  SON  OF  AUSTERITY 

Growing  accustomed  to  the  semi-darkness,  she 
recognized  the  peaceful  outlines  about  her. 
Though  the  sheltered  air  was  warm,  she  shivered ; 
to  be  there,  none  witting  of  it  save  herself,  it  was 
the  acme  of  terrifying  solitude. 

She  dare  not  think  of  Cyril  Jephson — yet  she 
had  scarcely  thought  of  any  other  for  five  hours, 
each  second  a  turn  of  the  rack.  The  situation 
stripped  her  of  excuse,  defense,  or  subterfuge; 
she  writhed  in  an  agony  of  humiliating  perception. 
That  for  her  fastidious  judgment!  that  for  her 
delicate  insight!  that  for  her  exquisite  romance! 
that  for  the  virginal  self-respect  which  had  driven 
her  from  her  husband's  roof !  that  for  her  knowl- 
edge of  the  world!  each  demonstrative  was  the 
snap  of  a  fiendish  thumb  and  digit.  She  had 
been  cheated,  gulled,  befooled,  smirched  with  the 
common  folly  of  her  sex — ha,  ha!  ho,  ho!  every 
tremor  of  a  nerve,  every  pulse  of  a  vein,  was  a 
shout  of  diabolical  laughter  in  her  ears.  She 
suffered  the  most  absolute  collapse  of  shame. 

A  faint  blue  spark  throbbed  on  the  chandelier ; 
she  turned  it  up  fractionally  to  take  off  her  hat 
and  jacket.  Catching  sight  of  herself  in  the  low 
wide  mirror,  she  put  her  hands  to.  her  hair  and 
coaxed  it  mechanically  into  shape;  travel  and 
misery  had  disordered  her  pretty  head.  Her  eyes 
shone  brilliantly;  excitement  and  suspense  made 
her  electric. 

In  all  the  thoughts  of  Hero  Gotch  there  was  no 
comfort,  no  guidance;  a  power  that  was  not 


THE  FLOWERING  OF  DESPAIR     349 

mental  had  brought  her  back,  the  same  power 
drove  her  to  her  husband.  She  stole  into  the 
passage  and  listened  at  his  door,  the  sound  of  his 
steps  reached  her,  alternately  increasing  and  di- 
minishing; he  was  striding  now  to,  now  from 
her,  therefore  alone;  she  trembled  violently,  her 
strength  ebbed  to  the  verge  of  inanition.  Deter- 
minedly she  moved  the  handle;  by  chance  it  did 
not  whine  or  shriek.  The  door  swung  in,  the 
portiere  covering  the  gap,  she  slipped  through, 
closed  it  behind  her,  cowered  so  a  moment,  then, 
forcing  herself  to  leave  her  covert,  stood,  a  quak- 
ing figure,  in  the  full  light. 

Turning  with  his  final  stride,  Paul  saw  her  and 
staggered.  There  came  into  his  face  that  look 
of  dreadful  ecstasy  which  humanity  reserves  for 
the  Supernatural.  Hero  froze  at  it,  then  burst 
into  a  cry. 

"Please,  please !"  she  besought  him  confusedly, 
"don't!— it's— it's  me." 

Paul  clutched  for  his  reason  and  saved  it. 
Hero  perceived  the  crux  of  the  problem. 

"I — I  got  in  quietly,"  she  stammered,  "while 
the  postman  was  waiting,  and  left  my  things  in 
the  parlor." 

Her  husband  reduced  incredulity  to  surprise. 
A  wave  of  joy  hurled  itself  against  his  restored 
sanity,  then  retreated. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come  back,"  he  said, 
dispiritedly;  "I  did  not  think  you  would  have 
heard  so  soon." 


350          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

Fear  seized  upon  Hero. 

"Heard  what?"  she  whispered;  "Baby  isn't — 
isn't ?" 

"No,"  Paul  told  her;  "my  mother.  Didn't 
you  know? — very  suddenly,  of  a  relapse  after 
pneumonia." 

"Oh!"  said  Hero,  with  an  amazement  of  pity. 

"I  thought,"  gasped  Paul,  stricken  by  her 
alarm  to  the  earliest  realization  of  his  loss,  "that 
was  why " 

He  put  up  his  hands  to  his  face,  fighting,  strain- 
ing, wrestling  hugely  with  a  shattered  paroxysm 
of  masculine  tears.  Ashamed,  he  moved  away, 
and  sat  down. 

Drawn  by  living  cords  of  tenderness,  Hero 
crept  to  him.  Soon  one  of  the  man's  thin  hands 
— he  had  thin,  strong  hands,  like  his  mother's — 
fell  slowly.  Hero  touched  it,  frightened  by  the 
convulsive  opening  of  those  springs  which  lie  so 
unsuspected  in  some  natures.  At  that  willing 
contact  of  the  soft  fingers,  Paul  Gotch  caught 
them  up,  snatched  them  to  his  lips  and  kissed  them 
fiercely.  The  drops  that  bathed  the  delicate  flesh 
were  scalding  hot. 

His  wife  glanced  away,  overcome.  In  that 
moment  she  saw  the  glowing  lamp  in  her  screened 
corner,  her  chair,  her  books,  the  warm  lining  of 
her  work-basket.  Nothing  had  been  changed, 
nothing  added,  save  the  picture  of  herself  that 
hung  over  the  cot.  Perception  welled  into  tears, 
she  could  look  no  longer.  Elsewhere  there  was 


THE  FLOWERING  OF  DESPAIR     35  r 

novelty — a  tall  telescope,  a  deal  table  with  models, 
were  significant  of  emotional  suppression.  Im- 
perceptibly she  caressed  the  bent  brown  head,  a 
tremulous  pleasure  thrilling  her. 

"I — I  was  wrong  to  go  away,"  she  began— 
"silly,  wicked,  selfish." 

"It  was  I  who  sinned,"  answered  Paul,  with 
averted  face;  "I — I  coveted  you.  But  you  shall 
do  what  you  will  with  me  now,  so  you  will  let  me 
see  you  sometimes  and  hear  your  voice.  I  am 
very  desolate,  Hero,  I  am  a  Gotch — the  Gotches 
are  an  unlucky  stock,  too  stern  for  love,  too  selfish 
not  to  demand  it,  too  proud  to  take  pity  in  its 
stead.  Yet  I  asked  your  pity  once,  I  ask  it  again 
— I  am  broken,  I  suppose."  He  ran  on  in  a  mis- 
erable monologue.  "Why  have  you  come  back 
to  open  my  wounds?  Do  you  know  what  the 
sight  of  you  is  to  me,  the  touch  of  your  fingers, 
the  scent  of  your  hair,  the  light  of  your  eyes? 
You  were  wise  to  leave  me — why  are  you  re- 
turned? have  I  not  cause  enough  to  loathe  my- 
self?" 

"I — I  want  to  tell  you,"  struggled  Hero, 
through  her  own  grief — "why  I  went  away." 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Paul,  wearily ;  "he  came 
here.  You  were  right,  he  would  not  have  spared 
you.  Such  men  make  women  weak — God  knows 
why!" 

"But  you  are  wrong,"  pleaded  Hero,  stricken 
to  his  feet ;  "I— I  didn't :  I— I  only  thought  I  did." 
She  abandoned  herself  to  dejection.  "Oh,  what 


352          A   SON   OF  AUSTERITY 

shall  I  do,  what  shall  I  do?"  she  moaned— "z?  T 
could  have  told  you  myself!" 

The  man  roused  to  comfort  her  as  she  had 
sought  to  comfort  him. 

"Why  should  I  judge  you?"  he  asked  her;  "I 
loved  you  when  I  first  saw  you.  Love  comes  by 
no  will  of  ours ;  it  can  not  be  given  or  earned." 

"It  can!  it  can!"  cried  Hero  hysterically;  "I 
know  it  can !" 

"A  kind  delusion,"  said  her  husband;  "no,  do 
not  try  to  make  yourself  love  me;  if  you  have 
any  power  over  such  things,  make  me  cease  to 
love  you,  so  that  I  may  be  content  to  keep  you 
as  a  dear  friend,  a  sister,  a  comrade.  Can  you 
teach  me  that;  can  you  take  memory  from  my 
days,  thought  from  my  nights,  desire  out  of  my 
heart?" 

He  clasped  her  hands  in  his. 

"How  cold  you  are!"  he  broke  off;  "come  to 
the  fire."  He  lifted  a  chair,  relinquished  it  sud- 
denly, stretched  out  an  arm  to  the  bent-wood 
rocker  by  the  screen,  and  brought  it  to  the  fender. 
One  of  the  projecting  curves  entangled  with  the 
supports  of  the  cot  and  jarred  them;  the  child 
woke  and  wailed. 

Hero  went  and  gathered  it  up — slowly,  nerv- 
ously, tense  with  pathos.  She  sat  down  in  her 
accustomed  seat,  raising  her  burden  to  kiss  it; 
the  tears  streamed  at  the  gesture.  Paul  watched 
her  insatiably.  Hero  soothed  her  tiny  son,  put 


THE  FLOWERING  OF  DESPAIR      353 

him  back  among  his  pillows,  and  stood  brooding 
over  him. 

Then  it  was  that  her  husband  drew  near  and 
spoke  to  her,  quiveringly,  as  one  that  acts  against 
his  better  judgment. 

"Hero,"  he  said ;  "tell  me,  if  I  were  to  be  less 
gloomy,  less  critical,  less  contemptuous  of  the 
world,  less  impossible  a  companion  of  your  bright 
youth ;  if  I  were  humble  and  obedient,  if  I  taught 
myself  joyousness  as  a  child  studies  a  lesson, 
would  it  be  madness  to  hope  that,  some  day,  a 
little  tenderness  towards  me  might  warm  your 
spirit,  and  that  you  would  tell  me  of  it  ?  Do  not 
be  too  sanguine,  too  considerate,  too  fearful  of 
the  truth;  if  you  doubt  too  greatly,  be  merciful 
and  bid  me  despair.  The  night  you  left  me  I 
was  mad  with  pain ;  I  stilled  it  with  a  lie,  that  you 
loved  me  and  did  not  know  it.  I  will  not  nurse 
that  falsehood  any  longer;  give  me,  if  you  can, 
a  spark  of  hope  instead." 

Hero  raised  her  eyes — lucent,  appealing,  azure, 
wet  with  recent  sorrow,  fresh  and  sweet  and  frail 
as  blue-bells  after  storm.  Her  husband  dazzled 
before  them,  incredulous;  something  tugged  at 
every  strand  of  life.  Then  he  laid  trembling  hold 
upon  her;  she  clung  against  him,  seeking — mag- 
nificent, intoxicating  generosity ! — a  kiss. 


THE    END 


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